Skip to main content

Full text of "High priest"

See other formats 


«-t 


">  "A  Or 

,;•#.  p 

mm. 

'mi 


ffw/tA/A 


(W^- ' 


TiItl^THY 

LEARY 


lni 


<> 


TO1Rj 


Original  Art  by 

Allen  Atwell  & 
Michael  Green 

New  Edition  Art 

by  Howard  Hallis 


TUT 


lni 


RONIN  PUBLISHING 

Berkeley  California  USA 


Published  by 

Ronm  Publishing,  Inc. 

P.O.  Box  1035 
Berkeley,  CA  94701 

High  Priest 

ISBN  0-914171-80-2 
Copyright  •1968  and  1995 
by  Timothy  Leary,  Ph.D. 
(The  Original  Edition  was 
published  in  1968  by  The 
New  American  Library  in 
association  with  The  World 
Publishing  Company.) 

All  rights  reserved.  No  part 
oF  this  book  may  be  repro- 
duced or  transmitted  in  any 
form  or  by  any  means,  elec- 
tronic or  mechanical,  includ- 
ing photocopying,  recording, 
or  by  any  information  stor- 
age and  retrieval  system, 
without  written  permission 
From  the  publisher,  except 
For  the  inclusion  oF  brieF 
quotations  in  a  review. 

Credits  For  Ronin  Edition 

Project  Editors 

Sebastian  OrFali  cV 
Beverly  Potter 

Front  Matter  Design  &  Type 

Judy  July 

Original  Edition  Illustrations 

Allen  Atwell  &  Michael  Green 

New  Edition  Illustrations 

Howard  Hallis 

Cover  Design 

Brian  Groppe 


Original  Edition  Copyright  Notices: 

Excerpts  from  The  Divine  Comedy  by  Dante  Aligheri,  translated  by  Lawrence 
Grant  White,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Random  House,  Inc.  Excerpts  from  The 
Magus  by  John  Fowles  reprinted  by  permission  of  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 
Excerpts  from  Steppenwolft  by  Hermann  Hesse,  translated  by  Basil  Creighton, 
Copyright  1927,  ©  1957  by  Holt,  Rinehart  and  Winston,  Inc.;  reprinted  by  permis- 
sion of  Holt,  Rinehart  and  Winston,  Inc.  "Within  and  Without"  by  Hermann 
Hesse,  Copyright  1954  by  Suhrkamp  Verlag.  Excerpts  from  Doors  oft  Perception 
by  Aldous  Huxley,  Copyright  ©1954,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Harper  G  Row. 
Excerpts  from  Island  by  Aldous  Huxley,  Copyright  ©1962,  reprinted  by  permis- 
sion of  Harper  G  Row.  Excerpts  from  The  Lotus  and  the  Robot  by  Arthur 
Koestler,  Copyright  ©1961  by  Arthur  Koestler,  reprinted  by  permission  of  The 
Macmillan  Company.  Excerpts  from  The  Epic  o$  Gilgamesh,  translated  by  N.K. 
Sandars,  reprinted  by  permission  of  Penguin  Books  Ltd.  Excerpts  from  The 
Reunions  oj  Man  by  Huston  Smith,  Copyright  ©1958,  reprinted  by  permission 
of  Harper  G  Row.  Excerpts  from  The  Lord  ojj  the  Rings  by  J.R.R.  Tolkien 
reprinted  by  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  Company.  Excerpts  from  The 
1  Ching  or  The  Book  oft  Changes,  translated  by  R.  Wilhelm  and  C.F.  Baynes, 
Bollingen  Series  XIX  (Princeton  University  Press,  1967),  Copyright  ©1950,  1967 
by  The  Bollingen  Foundation,  New  York;  reprinted  by  permission  of  Princeton 
%  University  Press.  Excerpts  from  "Minutes  To  Go"  by  William  Burroughs  reprint- 
ed by  permission  of  Beach  Books,  Texts  G  Documents.  Excerpts  from  the 
Boston  Herald  Traveler  reprinted  by  permission  of  the  Boston  Herald  Traveler 
Corporation.  Excerpts  from  "LSD-Hollywood's  Status  Drug"  (Cosmopolitan, 
September,  1963),  Copyright  ©  1963  by  Hearst  Magazines,  Inc.;  reprinted  by  per- 
mission of  Cosmopolitan.  Excerpts  from  the  writings  of  Allen  Ginsberg 
reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author.  Excerpts  from  letters  of  Michael 
Hollingshead  reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author.  Excerpts  from  Inner 
Space  reprinted  by  permission  of  The  Rt.  Rev.  Michael  Augustine  Francis  Itkin. 
Excerpts  from  an  interview  with  Timothy  Leary  originally  appeared  in  Playboy 
magazine;  Copyright  ©  1966  by  HMH  Publishing  Co.  Inc.;  reprinted  by  permis- 
sion of  Playboy.  Excerpts  from  "The  Hallucinogenic  Drug  Cult"  by  Noah 
Gordon  (The  Reporter,  August  15,  1963),  Copyright  ©  1963  by  The  Reporter 
Magazine  Company;  reprinted  by  permission  of  The  Reporter  and  the  author. 
Excerpts  from  "Return  Trip  to  Nirvana"  by  Arthur  Koestler  reprinted  by  permis- 
sion of  the  Sunday  Telegraph,  London.  Excerpts  from  "Instant  Mysticism" 
(Time,  October  25,  1963)  and  "An  Epidemic  of  Acid  Heads"  (Time,  March  11, 
1966);  Copyright  ©  1963  by  Time,  Inc.;  Copyright  ©  1966  by  Time,  Inc.;  reprinted 
by  permission  of  Time,  Inc.  Illustration  facing  pages  46  and  184:  Courtesy  of 
Richard  Davis  Studio.  Illustration  facing  page  128:  Courtesy  of  Fred  W. 
McDarrah.  Portions  of  Trip  6  appeared  in  Csquire  Magazine. 


DEDlCATiOnS 


1968 

This  manuscript  was  entrusted  to: 

My  Beloved  Daughter,  Susan  Leary 

and  to 

My  Beloved  Son,  Jack  Leary 


1995 

Now  the  manuscript  is  passed,  by  them,  to: 

Dieadra  Martino 

Ashley  Martino 

Sara  Brown 

Brett  Leary 

Annie  Leary 

Davina-Susana  Martino 


iv        High  Priest     ♦      Timothy  Leary 


William  Burroughs 


ORJGlnAL  ACKnOWLEDGEMEnTS 

the  events  related  in  this  history  reflect  the  collective  consciousness 
and  collaborative  behavior  of  several  thousand  people— spiritual 
researchers  who  have  shared  dark  confusions  and  bright  hopes,  given 
their  emotion,  muscle,  brain,  and  risked  scorn  and  social  isolation  to  pursue  the 
psychedelic  yoga. 

Homage  and  gratitude  to  these  fellow  explorers. 

Richard  Alpert  and  Ralph  Metzner  have  participated  in  every  phase  of  the  long 
ascent  and  continue  to  climb  higher.  His-story  is  their  story. 

Three  tender  elvish  flowers,  Rosemary  Woodruff,  Susan  Leary,  and  Jack  Leary, 
have  endured  the  harshest  ordeals  of  the  journey— at  home  and  in  prison— and 
have  survived,  blossoming. 

Loving  thanks  to  the  psychologists  and  religious  philosophers  who  have  coun- 
seled at  our  centers  in  Cambridge,  Boston,  Zihuatanejo,  Antigua,  Millbrook,  and 
Manhattan. 

The  original  art  for  this  manuscript  is  the  illuminated  work  of  Allen  Atwell  and 
Michael  Green. 

The  editorial  acts  of  love  were  performed  by  Susan  Firestone,  Lorraine 
Schwartz,  and  Jean  McCreedy. 

The  psychedelic  revolution  is  a  religious  renaissance  of  the  young,  for  the 
young,  by  the  young.  This  volume  presents  Old  Testament  background  for  the  new 
witness  of  those  born  after  1946,  children  of  the  Atomic  Age. 

The  authentic  priests,  the  real  prophets  of  this  great  movement  are  the  rock- 
and-roll  musicians.  Acid-rock  is  the  hymns,  odes,  chants  of  the  turned-on  love  gen- 
eration. For  the  first  time  in  history,  teen-agers  (our  new  advanced  mutant  species) 
have  written  their  own  songs,  beat  their  own  rhythm,  created  their  own  religion. 

The  work  of  the  psychedelic  scholar-politicians  (described  in  this  history)  is 
over,  with  love  and  confidence  we  turn  our  work  and  our  planet  over  to  the  young 
and  their  prophets: 


ORJGlnAL  HtGH  PRJESt  BAnDS 

The  Beatles 

The  Byrds 

The  Rolling  Stones 

The  Beach  Boys 

The  Jefferson  Airplane 

The  Mamas  and  the  Papas 

The  Grateful  Dead 

Moby  Grape 

The  Daily  Flash 

The  Doors 

Country  Joe  and  the  Fish 

Charlie  Lloyd 

The  Monkees 

Donovan 

The  Association 

Buffalo  Springfield 

The  Animals 

Big  Brother  and  the  Holding  Company 

The  Quicksilver  Messenger  Service 

and  many  other  ecstatic  combinations. 


1995  HiGH  PRIEST  BAnDS 


Smashing  Pumpkins 

Dots 

Edward  Ka-Spel 

Tear  Garden 

Skinny  Puppy 

Ministry 

Nirvana 

Cabaret  Voltaire 

Throbbing  Gristle 

Negativland 

A  Tribe  Called  Quest 

De  La  Soul 

Digable  Planets 

Nine  Inch  Nails 

Hole 

Orbital 

Future  Sounds  of  London 

Aphex  Twins 

DeeLite 

Prince 

Dead  Can  Dance 

The  Cocteau  Twins 

This  Mortal  Coil 

Wolfgang  Press 

Ride 

Slowdive 

Blues  Traveller 

Luscious  Jackson 


The  Beastie  Boys 

Sonic  Youth 

Blondie 

Jeff  Beck 

The  Cult 

Nick  Cave  and  the  Bad  Seeds 

John  Zorn 

Elliot  Sharp 

Glenn  Branca 

Dr.  Fiorella  Terenzi 

Dr.  Susumu  Ohno 

Soul  Asylum 

Revolting  Cocks 

Camper  Van  Beethoven 

The  Plastic  Ono  Band 

Blind  Lemon  Jefferson 

Cream 

Syd  Barrett 

Janisjoplin 

Iron  Butterfly 

Strawberry  Alarm  Clock 

The  Carrie  Nations 

The  Who 

Bob  Dylan 

Crosby  Stills  Nash  and  Young 

Creedence  Clearwater  Revival 

Frank  Zappa  and  the  Mothers  of  Invention 

The  Soft  Machine 


viii        High  Priest     ♦      Timothy  Leary 


Laura  &  Aldous  Huxley 


1995  ACKXIOWLEDGEmEnTS 

We  transmit  the  1995  re-issue  of  High  priest  with  a  certain  amused, 
confused,  apologetic  wonder. 
This  collection  of  Neuro-Adventure  Stories  was  first  published  in  1968  by 
World  Publishing -NAL. 

It  was  Re-Issued,  Re-Animated  in  1995  by  Ronin  Publishing.  I  am  grateful  for 
the  visionary  friendship  of  Beverly  Potter  and  Sebastian  Orfali  and  the  graphic- 
prowess  of  Howard  Hallis. 

The  "Acknowledgements"  for  the  ancient  1968  version  declaimed,  "The  psy- 
chedelic revolution  is  a  religious  renaissance  of  the  young,  for  the  young,  by  the 
young.  This  volume  presents  Old  Testament  background  for  the  new  witness  of 
those  born  after  1946. . . ." 

Thus,  27  years  ago,  did  we  pompously,  parentally,  announce  the  Birth  of 
the  Baby  Boomers!  So  Pass  out  the  Loaded  Cigars. 
Here's  more  '68  pulpit-parent  sermonizing. 

"The  authentic  priests,  the  real  prophets  oF  this  great 
movement  are  the  rock-and-roll  musicians.  .  . . 
For  the  First  time  in  history  (!),  teen-agers  (our  new 
advanced  mutant  species)  have  written  their  own  songs, 
beat  their  own  rhythm,  created  their  own  religion." 

And  then  came  the  solemn-inspirational  Locker-Room  Exhortation. 

"The  work  oF  the  psychedelic  scholar-politicians 
(described  in  this  history)  is  over.  .  .  ." 

With  love  and  confidence  we  turn  our  work  and  our  planet  (?)  over  to  the 
young  and  their  prophets:  (the  rock  n  rollers). 


x       High.  Priest     *     Timothy  Leary 

The  1968  edition  celebrated  19  rock  groups:  The  Beatles,  The  Rolling  Stones, 
The  Monkees,  etc. 

Ok.  These  pronouncements  were  breathless,  pious,  embarrassingly  grandiose. 
But  they  did  lurch  in  the  right  direction.  The  inevitable  future. 

The  '60s  Youth  Movement  did  change  human  culture.  It  did,  among  other 
things,  popularize-legitimize  this  astonishing  concept  of  "New  Generation"  as  a 
major  cultural  issue.  Globally. 

GENERATIONALISMO! 

It  is  hard  for  us  to  realize  that  this  concept  that  each  generation  of  Teen- 
Agers  Re-Creates  a  New  Culture  was  not  a  major  historical 
force  before  the  20th  Century.  For  example,  in  the  slow-witted  1975  edition  of  "The 
New  (?)  Columbia  Encyclopedia"  the  only  reference  to  this  explosive  word  refers  to 
the  "Generation  of  1898",  in  Spain! 


jhE  GAY  90s  BOHEMIANS  WEI\E  NOJ  JEENE^S 


My  charming,  elegant,  educated,  worldly,  Irish-Catholic  grandparents,  Sarah 
Rooney  S  Dennis  Leary,  did  not  imagine  that  they  belonged  to  a  "generation". 

Dutiful  Catholic  teen-agers  of  the  Victorian  Age,  1860-1890,  danced,  dressed, 
courted  the  way  their  parents  (and  the  Protestants)  did. 

Polkas  &  Waltzes! 

And  their  coming-of-age  trips  were  not  to  Woodstock  or  Katmandu.  Like  the 
Protestants  they  read  about  in  the  papers,  they  dutifully  sailed  to  Europe  on  the 
traditional  Cunard  steamships  and  made  the  classical,  obligatory  "trips"  to  the 
Louvre,  the  Vatican  Museums  and  the  Opera  Houses. 

THE  LOST  GENERATION  OF  THE  '20s 

Just  recently  I  learned  that  my  sophisticated  Aunt  Betty  died  in  1923  of  a 
cocaine  overdose!  Betty  in  her  scandalous  trips  to  Paris,  New  York  and  Reno  (for  a 
semi-legal  divorce)  was  a  "hell-raising",  "whoopee",  sophisticated  "flapper".  A  duti- 
ful member  of  the  Roaring  '20s  counter-culture:  THE  "LOST"  GENERATION. 


New)  Acknowledgements        xi 

This  catchy  term  was  invented  by  a  certain  Gertrude  Stein,  an  astute,  brave, 
scientifically-trained  sister  who  flaunted  lesbian  credentials  and  courageously  glo- 
rified the  concept  of  Counter-Culture. 

My  darling,  beloved  parents,  Abigail  8  Timothy,  were  part  of  this  new  culture. 
These  pious,  prudish,  patriotic,  middle-class  Catholics  openly  swigged  the  major 
illegal  drug  of  the  time!  And  they  smoked  cigarettes  (not  in  public,  for  ladies,  of 
course). 

Abby  and  Tote  belonged  to  the  first  cohort  to  understand  generational  differ- 
ences. They  called  it  "progress",  i.e.  Model  T  Fords,  canned  goods,  lip-stick(I). 

My  parents  (silently)  knew  they  were  different  from  their  parents.  They  were 
the  first  generation  in  human  history  to  listen  to  radio  and  talk  via  electric 
wires.  They  smoked  and  drank  like  the  film  stars.  Their  Radio  Broadcasts  were  lec- 
tures or  symphony  concerts.  They  were  "teened"  too  soon  to  be  imprinted  by 
Decca  Records  playing  Jazz  and  Dixieland. 

Television?  No  way!  My  parents  stubbornly  rejected  TV  like  suspicious  primi- 
tives. The  way  Literary  People  today  fear  computers. 

It  is  interesting  to  recall  that  those  magic  terms  BOHEMIANS  8  LOSJ 
GENE^AJION  were  applied  to  upper-middle-class  adults.  F.  Scott  Fitzgerald,  Ernest 
Hemingway,  Ezra  Pound,  Mabel  Dodge,  D.H.  Lawrence,  T.  S.  Eliot,  James  Joyce, 
William  Butler  Yeats,  Ford  Maddox  Ford,  Georgia  O'Keeffe,  the  Expressionist 
painters,  the  jazz  musicians.  None  of  these  "avant-garde",  cultural  innovators  were 
"teen-agers". 

GEN  1:  THE  SPOCK  PARENTS 

For  example,  the  psychedelic  experiences  described  in  High  PRjESf  were 
organized  and  made  credible  by  people  who  "teened"  1920-1940.  The  quaint,  schol- 
arly attitude  of  this  book  emerged  from  sages  like  Walter  Clark,  Frank  Barron, 
Aldous  S  Laura  Huxley,  Gordon  Wasson,  Arthur  Koestler,  Allen  Ginsberg,  Harry 
Murray,  Houston  Smith,  Sri  Gayatri  Devi,  Alan  Watts,  William  S.  Burroughs,  And  me. 

In  i960  we  Middle-Aged,  Middle-Class,  Naive,  White,  Harvard  Faculty 
Intellectuals  expected  that  psychedelic  drugs  would  be  used  by  Academic  Scholarly 
Adults  who  had  read  William  James  ("Varieties  of  Religious  Experience")  and  the 
Pop-Hindu  and  Pop-Bhuddist  texts.  Our  mission  was  to  train  graduate  students  to 


xii        High  Priest     +     Timothy  Leary 


Alan  Watts 


High  Priest     +     Timothy  Leary       xiii 

use  psychedelic  drugs  as  tools  for  research,  psychotherapy  and  mystical  experi- 
ences. 

It  never  occurred  to  us  that  a  new  post-war  generation  who  grew  up  with 
Television  would  use  psychedelics  as  a  rite-of-passage.  Turn  On.  Fine  Tune.  Off-On, 
Drop  Out. 

We  indulgent  parents  unwittingly  produced: 

GEN  2:  BABY  BOOMERS 

The  Woodstock  Generation  shocked  and  scorned  us  "square"  parents.  Then,  in 
turn,  the  Hippies  grew  up  and  produced  children. 

GEN  3:  THE  SKEPTICAL  YUPPIES 

And  these  Disco-Punkers  of  the  cocaineyos  and  the  booze-crack  '80s  grew  up 
scorning  their  hippy-dippy  parents. 

And  now,  in  the  1990s  we  welcome  the  next  New  Breed! 

GEN  4:  THE  SUPER  SKEPTICAL 
SCREEN-AGE  NET-SURFERS 

Today,  with  wary  anticipation,  we  watch  this  mysterious  info-matic  new  breed, 
in  front  of  computer  screens,  feeding  neuro-enriched  light-waves  to  their  hungry 
brains.  Fine-tuning,  scanning,  melding,  morphing  technicolored  Screen  Images. 
Linked  into  the  InterNet,  exchanging  new  light-speed  realities. 

May  we  humbly  hope  that  they  will  up-load  a  few  shards  and  fragments  of 
these  archaeological  Hi^h  Priest  chips  and  around  ten  other  story- 
books by  the  author  on  the  World  Wide  Web. 

CUA  Round. 


xiv        High  Priest     *     Timothy  Leary 


Gordon  Wasson 


AnD  tO  FRlEnDS 


Rosemary  Leary 

Barbara  Leary 

Joi  Ito,  Momoko  Itof 

Scott  8  Mimi  Fisher 

Denis  Berry 

Coco  Conn 

Barbara  Fouch  8 

John  Roseboro 

Mimi  8  Tom  Davis 

William  Burroughs 

James  Grauerholtz 

Flo-Maynard-Korby 

Kim-Lisa  Ferguson 

Wilder  8  Christian 

Ron  Turner 

Lesley  Meyers 

Mondo  8  Jas  Morgan 

Nancy-Barry  Sanders 

Peter-Matt-Teddy 

Ken  R.U.S.  Goffman 

Queen  Mu-Steve  B. 

Doug  Ruschkoff 

Eliot  Mintz 

Anita  Hoffman 

Paul  Kantner 

Yoko,  Sean,  Camella 

All  The  Glam-Glitter 

Getty's 
Debbie  8  Bill  Gibson 


Alexa  8  Tom  Robbins 

David  Prince 

Shauna-Norman  Hajjar 

Al  Jourgeson 

Perry  Farrell 

Bob  Guccione,  Jr. 

R.  Crumb 

Jaron  Lanier 

Pat  8  George  Milman 

John  Perry  Barlow 

Doris  V.  8  Ian 

Eldridge  Cleaver 

Paul  Krassner 

Deric  De  Kerchove 

Mark  Dippe 

Wes  Takahashi 

Dudley  Danof 

Ralph  Mendez 

Nancy  8  Steve  Ditlea 

Leroy  Bobbitt 

Brian  Fargo 

Bruce  Eisner 

Shari  Lewis  8 

Jeremy  Tarcher 

Chris  Blackwell 

Faye  8  Ken  Kesey 

Aileen  8  Ken  Babbs 

Jim  Bauer 
Sandra  8  Hilly  Elkin 


xv i       High.  Priest     ♦      Timothy  Leary 


Allen  Ginsberg 


FOREWORD  BY  ALLEfl  GlnSBERfi 

By  the  late  '40s  of  this  memory  Century  the  people  I  knew  best  and  loved  most  had 
already  broken  thru  the  crust  of  old  Reasons  S  were  dowsing  for  some  Supreme 
Reality,  Christmas  on  Earth  Rimbaud  said,  Second  Religiousness  according  to  Spengler's  outline  of 
civilization  declining  through  proliferation  of  non-human  therefore  boring  technology;  Blake  had 
called  "0  Earth  0  Earth  return!"  centuries  before,  echoing  the  ancient  gnostic  prophecy  that 
Whitman  spelled  out  for  America  specifically  demanding  that  the  Steam-engine  "be  confronted  and 
met  by  at  least  an  equally  subtle  and  tremendous  force-infusion  for  purposes  of  spiritualization, 
for  the  pure  conscious,  for  genuine  aesthetics,  and  for  absolute  and  primal  manliness  and  woman- 
liness—" Ezra  Pound's  mind  jumped  to  diagnose  the  dimming  of  the  world's  third  Eye:  "With  Usura 
the  line  grows  thick." 

One  scholar  who  transmitted  Blake's  kabbalah,  S.  Foster  Damon,  could  remember  his  sudden 
vision  of  tiny  flowers  carpeting  Harvard  Yard  violet  before  World  War  One,  an  image  that  lingered 
over  60  years  in  mind  since  his  fellow  student  Virgil  Thomson  gave  him  the  cactus  peyote  to  eat. 
Damon  concluded  that  rare  beings  like  Blake  are  born  with  physiologic  gift  of  vision,  continuous  or 
intermittent.  William  James,  whose  pragmatic  magic  probably  called  the  Peyote  God  to  Harvard  in 
the  first  place,  had  included  shamanistic  chemical  visions  among  the  many  authentic  "Varieties  of 
Religious  Experience."  His  student  Gertrude  Stein  experimented  in  alteration  of  consciousness 
through  mindfulness  of  language,  an  extremely  effective  Yoga  since  mechanical  reproduction  of 
language  by  XX  Century  had  made  language  the  dominant  vehicle  of  civilized  consciousness;  her 
companion  Alice  B.  Toklas  contributed  a  cookbook  recipe  for  Hashish  Brownies  to  enlighten  those 
persons  over-talkative  in  drawing  rooms  unaware  that  "the  medium  is  the  message." 

This  synchronism  is  exquisite:  William  S.  Burroughs  also  once  of  Harvard  shared  Miss  Stein's 
mindfulness  of  the  hypnotic  drug-like  power  of  language,  and  collaborated  on  cut-up  rearrange- 
ment of  stereotyped  language  forms  with  friend  Brion  Gysin,  who  had  originally  given  Miss  Toklas 
the  recipe  for  her  famous  Brownies.  Burroughs  among  others  had  begun  experiments  with  drug- 
shamanism  after  World  War  Two— for  the  author  of  "Naked  Lunch"  it  was  a  pragmatic  extension  of 
his  Cambridge  interest  in  linguistic  Anthropology.  That  same  gnostic  impulse  broke  through  to 
clear  consciousness  simultaneously  in  many  American  cities:  Gary  Snyder  realized  the  entire  uni- 
verse was  alive  one  daybreak  1948  in  Portland  when  a  flight  of  birds  rose  out  of  the  stillness  in  a 


xviii       High  Priest     ♦     Timothy  Leary 

gully  by  the  city  river,  a  natural  vision  —The  masters  of  the  Berkeley  Renaissance  read  Gertrude 
Stein  aloud  and  practiced  Poetic  kabbalah  (charming  synchronism  that  psychologist  Timothy  Leary 
met  poets  Jack  Spicer  and  Robert  Duncan  in  that  same  1948  student  scene)— Neal  Cassady  drove 
Jack  Kerouac  to  Mexico  in  a  prophetic  automobile  to  see  the  physical  body  of  America,  the  same 
Denver  Cassady  that  one  decade  later  drove  Ken  Kesey's  Kosmos-patterned  schoolbus  on  a  Kafka- 
circus  tour  over  the  roads  of  the  awakening  nation— And  that  wakening  began,  some  say,  with  the 
first  saxophone  cry  of  the  new  mode  of  black  music  which  shook  the  walls  of  white  city  mind 
when  Charles  Parker  lifted  his  birdflightnoted  horn  8  announced  a  new  rhythm  of  thinking,  an 
extended  breathing  of  the  body  in  music  and  speech,  a  new  consciousness.  For  as  Plato  had  writ, 
"When  the  mode  of  the  music  changes,  the  walls  of  the  city  shake." 

The  new  consciousness  born  in  these  States  can  be  traced  back  through  old  gnostic  texts, 
visions,  artists,  8  shamans;  it  is  the  consciousness  of  our  ground  nature  suppressed  8  desecrated.  It 
was  always  the  secret  tale  of  the  tribe  in  America,  this  great  scandal  of  the  closing  of  the  doors  of 
perception  of  the  Naked  Human  Form  Divine.  It  began  with  the  white  murder  of  Indian  inhabitants 
of  the  ground,  the  theft  and  later  usurious  exploitation  of  their  land,  it  continued  with  an  assault 
on  all  races  and  species  of  Mother  Nature  herself  and  concludes  today  with  total  disruption  of  the 
ecology  of  the  entire  planet.  No  wonder  black  slaves  kept  for  non-human  use  into  this  century  in 
tear-gassed  ghettos  of  megalopolis  were  the  first  Aliens  to  sound  the  horn  of  Change,  the  first 
Strangers  to  Call  the  Great  Call  through  Basilides'  many  Heavens.  Amazing  synchronism  again,  that 
Mr.  Frank  Takes  Gun,  Native  American  Church  amerindian  Peyote  Chief,  invited  the  brilliantly  talk- 
ative silver-haired  psychiatrist  who  directed  a  Saskatchewan  mental  hospital  in  the  1940's  to  partic- 
ipate in  a  Peyote  ritual,  and  that  same  Dr.  Humphrey  Osmond  having  recognized  a  wonder  of  con- 
sciousness thus  experienced  passed  on  the  catalyst  in  Mescaline  synthetic  form  to  Aldous  Huxley; 
and  that  Huxley's  1945  essay  on  the  chemical  opening  of  the  Doors  of  Perception  found  its  way  to 
the  tables  of  Bickford's  Cafeteria  Times  Square  New  York  8  the  couches  of  Reed  College  and 
Berkeley,  where  artist  persons,  having  heard  the  Great  Call  of  the  African  American,  already  initiat- 
ed themselves  en  masse  to  subtle  gradations  of  their  own  consciousness  experienced  while  smok- 
ing the  same  Afric  hemp  smoked  by  Charles  Parker  Thelonious  Monk  8  Dizzy  Gillespie. 

Dr.  Timothy  Leary  takes  up  his  part  of  the  tale  of  the  tribe  in  a  Mexican  hut  and  brings  his 
discovery  to  Harvard  harmoniously— and  there  begins  the  political  battle,  black  and  white  magic 
become  public  visible  for  a  generation.  Dr.  Leary  is  a  hero  of  American  consciousness.  He  began  as 
a  sophisticated  academician,  he  encountered  discoveries  in  his  field  which  confounded  him  and  his 
own  technology,  he  pursued  his  studies  where  attention  commanded,  he  arrived  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  public  knowledge.  One  might  hesitate  to  say,  like  Socrates,  like  Galileo?— poor  Dr. 


Foreword       xix 

Leary,  poor  Earth!  Yet  here  we  are  in  Science  Fiction  History,  in  the  age  of  Hydrogen  Bomb 
Apocalypse,  the  very  Kali  Yuga  wherein  man's  stupidity  so  overwhelms  the  planet  that  ecological 
catastrophe  begins  to  rehearse  old  tribes-tales  of  Karmaic  retribution,  Fire  8  Flood  8  Armageddon 
impending. 

It  would  be  natural  (in  fact  deja  vu)  that  the  very  technology  stereotyping  our  consciousness 
8  desensitizing  our  perceptions  should  throw  up  its  own  antidote,  an  antidote  synthetic  such  as 
LSD  synchronous  with  mythic  tribal  Soma  8  Peyote.  Given  such  historic  Comedy,  who  could  emerge 
form  Harvard  technology  but  one  and  only  Dr.  Leary,  a  respectable  human  being,  a  worldly  man 
faced  with  the  task  of  Messiah.  Inevitable!  Not  merely  because  the  whole  field  of  mental  psycholo- 
gy as  a  "science"  had  arrived  at  biochemistry  anyway.  It  was  inevitable  because  the  whole  profes- 
sional civilized  world,  like  Dr.  Leary,  was  already  faced  with  the  Messianic  task  of  accelerated  evo- 
lution (i.e.,  psychosocial  Revolution)  including  an  alteration  of  human  consciousness  leading  to  the 
immediate  mutation  of  social  8  economic  forms.  This  staggering  realization,  psychedelic,  i.e.,  con- 
scious expanding  8  mind-manifesting  in  itself,  without  the  use  of  chemical  catalysts,  was  then 
forced  on  all  of  us  by  images  of  our  own  unconscious  rising  from  the  streets  of  Chicago,  where  city 
tear  gas  was  dumped  on  Christ's  very  Cross  in  Lincoln  Park  AD  1968.  The  drains  are  backing  up  in 
the  cities,  smog  noise  and  physiologic  poison  in  food  turn  us  to  insect  acts,  overpopulation  crazes 
the  planet,  our  lakes  corrupt,  old  riverways  become  dark  fens,  tanks  entered  Prague  and  Chicago 
streets  simultaneous,  Police  State  arrives  in  every  major  city,  starvation  wastes  African  provinces, 
Chinese  genocide  in  Tibet  mirrored  American  genocide  in  Vietnam,  Alarm!  Alarm!  howls  deep  as 
any  Biblic  prophecy. 

Ourselves  caught  in  the  giant  machine  are  conditioned  to  its  terms,  only  holy  vision  or  tech- 
nological catastrophe  or  revolution  break  "the  mind-forg'd  manacles."  Given  one  by-product  of  the 
technology  that  might,  as  it  were  by  feed-back,  correct  the  berserk  machine  and  liberate  the  inven- 
tor's mind  from  captivity  by  hypnotic  robots,  Dr.  Leary  had  in  LSD  an  invaluable  civilized  elixir.  For, 
as  Dr.  Jiri  Roubichek  observed  early  in  Prague  ("Artificial  Psychosis,"  1958),  "LSD  inhibits  condi- 
tioned reflexes."  And  this  single  phrase,  for  rational  men,  might  be  the  key  to  the  whole  gnostic 
mystery  of  LSD  and  Dr.  Leary's  role  as  unique,  alas  solitary,  courageous,  humane  8  frank 
Democratic  Boddhisatva-teacher  of  the  uses  of  LSD  in  America.  For  he  took  on  himself  the  noble 
task  of  announcing  the  evidence  of  his  senses  despite  the  scary  contumely  of  fellow  academicians, 
the  dispraising  timorous  irony  of  scientific  "professionals,"  the  stupidity  meanness  self-serving 
cowardice  and  hollow  vanity  of  bureaucratic  personnel  from  Harvard  Yard  to  Mexico  City  to 
Washington,  from  the  violent-mouthed  burglar-Prosecutor  G.  Gordon  Liddy  working  with  the  igno- 
rant Sheriff's  Office  in  Dutchess  County  NY  to  the  inner  greedy  sanctums  of  the  US  Treasury 


xx       High  Rriest    ♦     Timothy  Leary 

Department  in  D.C.,  our  whole  "establishment"  of  civilization  that  defends  us  from  knowledge  of 
our  own  unconscious  by  means  of  policemen's  clubs,  and  would  resist  the  liberation  of  our  minds 
and  bodies  by  any  brutish  means  available  including  teargas,  napalm  8  the  Hydrogen  Bomb. 

Dr.  Leary  conducted  himself  fairly  8  equitably,  given  the  extremity  of  his  knowledge,  it  took 
an  innocent  courage  to  explore  his  own  unconditioned  consciousness,  to  take  LSD  and  other  chem- 
icals often  enough  to  balance  praxis  as  well  as  explanation,  and  to  attempt  to  wed  the  enormity  of 
his  experience  to  Reason.  An  heroic  attempt  to  communicate  clearly  and  openly  through  civilized 
technologic  media  to  his  fellow  citizens,  despite  centuries  of  identity  brainwash  accelerated  now  to 
mass  paranoia  and  Cold  War  Apocalypse,  required  of  Dr.  Leary  the  proverbial  wisdom  of  serpent  8 
harmlessness  of  dove. 

Timothy  Leary  tells  the  tale  of  his  tribe  in  book  aptly  titled  The  Politic*  Ofj  Cc6ta&y,  8  events 
enlarged  since  he  wrote  his  book  and  chose  its  title  charge  the  author's  handiwork  with  prophetic 
enormity.  The  battle  of  generations  that  erupted  in  1968  simultaneously  in  Prague,  Chicago,  Mexico 
City,  Paris,  New  York  (and  Moscow  underground)— everywhere  the  State's  electronic  consciousness 
was  interlinked— transcended  antique  battles  of  Cold  War  and  Race.  We  witnessed  planetary  con- 
frontation wherein  controlling  Elders  trapped  in  a  suicidal  mechanical  consciousness  deployed 
their  destructive  technology  against  their  own  children  in  the  streets  of  their  own  cities.  'Tis 
Blake's  Urizen  tormenting  tender  Los  in  Eternity!  New  generations  have  risen  spontaneous  with 
new  consciousness  and  a  mutant  politics  of  flower  power  that  is  rooted  in  the  ground  of  human 
consciousness  itself:  an  acceptance  of  human  identity  as  one  with  green  living  nature  on  a  living 
planet  where  all  creatures  are  a  living  God.  The  public  philosophies  and  technologies  of  all  civi- 
lized Governments  at  present  are  at  war  with  this  God,  and  the  planet  itself  is  within  decades  of 
destruction.  No  wonder  there  was  sudden  appearance  of  Adamic  hair.  Eve  walked  naked  in  the 
streets;  ancient  body-rhythms  beat  out  thru  the  airwaves  in  electric  mantric  Rock  from  Bratislava 
to  San  Francisco,  8  youths  ingested  shamanistic  elixirs  to  recover  consciousness  of  planetary  arche- 
types. 

One  politic  synchronism  that  concerns  this  text  should  be  gossiped  forth  contextual.  Timothy 
Leary  quit  public  life  to  write  a  book  in  Mexico  some  years  ago  but  he  was  searched  by  Agents  of 
Government  as  he  went  to  cross  borders,  arrested  for  possession  of  some  herb,  and  thus  forced  to 
interrupt  his  writing,  returned  to  public  action,  and  defend  his  person  by  attack  from  by  the  State. 
So  he  traveled  to  academies  and  lectured  to  the  young,  8  thus  he  paid  large  legal  fees  required  by 
the  State  8  thus  maintained  an  Ashram  of  fellow  seekers  well  known  in  Millbrook.  Agents  of 
Government  then  raided  and  repeatedly  abused  the  Millbrook  Utopia,  whereupon  Dr.  Leary  was 
obliged  to  be  Dr.  Leary  and  lecture  more  to  raise  money  for  his  family  of  imprisoned  friends. 


Foreword        xxi 

Agents  of  Government  concluded  this  phase  of  prosecution  with  a  piece  of  Socratic  irony  so  bla- 
tantly echoing  an  old  Greek  injustice  that  the  vulgar  rhetoric  of  a  Tyrannous  State  would  need 
only  be  quoted  to  be  recognized,  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  these  States  were  then  so  plagued 
with  Tyrannously  inspired  chaos  and  public  communication  so  flooded  with  images  of  State 
Atrocity  from  the  alleys  of  Saigon  to  the  parks  of  Chicago  that  official  public  conscience  here  now, 
as  memorably  in  Russia  and  Germany,  was  shocked,  dumbed  S  amnesiac.  I  quote  from  the  Spring 
1968  State  Document  in  any  case  for  the  delectation  of  gnostic  Cognoscenti,  that  is  to  say  myriads 
of  the  present  young: 

To  Hon.  Edw.  W.  Wadsworth 

Clerk,  U.S.  Court  of  Appeals  for  the  Fifth  Circuit 

Room  408—400  Royal  Street 

New  Orleans,  LA  70130 

Re:  No.  23570 

Timothy  Leary—Vs— United  States  of  America 

. .  .We  are  applying  for  an  order  from  the  District  Court  requiring  the  Defendant  to  sur- 
render to  the  United  States  Marshal . . . 

The  appellant  continues  his  publicized  activities  involving  the  advocacy  of  the  use  of  psy- 
chedelic drugs  by  students  and  others  of  immature  judgment  and  tender  years  and  is  regarded 

as  a  menace  to  the  community  so  long  as  he  is  at  large 

Very  truly  yours, 
Morton  L.  Sussman 
United  States  Attorney 

By:  James  R.  Gough,  Asst.  U.S.  ATTY. 

Chief,  Appeals  Research  Division 

Thus  requesting  revocation  of  Dr.  Leary's  bail'd  liberty  while  his  political-religious  defense 
for  possession  of  an  herb  approached  Supreme  Court,  Agents  of  Government  checked  further  con- 
versation with  the  young.  The  Millbrook  Ashram  having  been  simultaneously  dispersed  by  Agents 
of  Government,  his  immediate  financial  responsibilities  lightened,  Timothy  Leary  retired  back 
home  to  Berkeley  with  his  mate  and  completed  his  description  of  The  Politics  Of  Ecstasy. 

A  twin  book,  High  Pr'mt,  was  also  finished  in  1968;  in  Hi$h  Prieit  Dr.  Leary  composed  letters 
anecdotes  conversations  and  personal  letters  together  into  a  number  of  chapters  concerning 
friends  and  colleagues  in  worlds  of  science  and  art,  8  presented  his  history  of  consciousness-alter- 
ing drug  Fate  in  the  course  of  a  decade's  official  and  unofficial  experiments  from  Mexico  thru 
Harvard  thru  Millbrook.  His  prose  by  now  more  supple  than  before,  the  book's  collage  structure 
contains  generous  exegesis  of  the  persons  and  events  of  a  psychedelic  brotherhood  and  scientific 


xx ii       High  Rriest     ♦     Timothy  Leary 

confreres  that  altered  the  consciousness  of  that  American  decade. 

Next  year  his  legal  appeal  reached  the  Supreme  Court,  in  May  1969  the  Law  under  which  he 
was  arrested  was  ruled  unconstitutional.  Government  attack  on  his  person  continued,  8  Dr.  Leary 
was  arrested  and  subsequently  tried,  convicted  and  sentenced  to  ten  years  without  appeal  bail  by 
Judge  Byron  McMillan  of  Orange  County  for  possession  of  two  marijuana  cigarette  stubs— planted 
in  his  car  ashtray  by  a  California  policeman.  Federal  authorities  chose  to  retry  Dr.  Leary  on  his 
Laredo  arrest  on  another  technicality,  this  time  not  for  failure  to  report  natural  grass  for  govern- 
ment tax,  but  on  the  charge  of  "transporting"  a  smidgeon  of  marijuana  the  few  hundred  yards  from 
the  middle  of  the  International  Bridge  to  the  Customs  Shed  where  he  had  been  detained  years  ear- 
lier. Convicted  in  Texas  trial,  our  philosopher  was  sentenced  by  Judge  Ben  Connally  to  ten  years 
also;  both  sentences  set  consecutively,  bail  denied,  Dr.  Leary  at  time  of  this  writing  was  jailed  in 
California  from  February  19,  1970.  Terminology  of  both  judges  agreed  with  government  lawyers' 
boorish  language  that  Dr.  Leary  was  a  "menace  to  the  community."  Bail  denial  was  successfully 
appealed  in  the  Texas  case,  and  as  of  August  7,  1970  bail  was  (perhaps)  to  be  granted  by  some 
Supreme  Court  for  California  despite  United  States  Attorney's  obnoxious  plea  that  our  philosopher 
"represents  a  danger  to  other  persons  and  to  the  community."* 

The  text  of  United  State*  ofl  America,  Appellee's  OPPOSITION  TO  APPLICATION  FOR  BAIL 
PENDING  APPEAL  contained  the  following  hideous  paragraph  ii  (e)  "Attached  hereto  as  Exhibit  D-i 
is  a  copy  of  an  article  purportedly  authored  by  Timothy  Leary  in  Playboy  magazine  in  which  he  dis- 
cussed the  facts  giving  rise  to  the  case  at  bar,  and  which  bears  also  upon  his  aims  and  activities 
which  are  at  the  basis  for  the  Government's  opposition  to  his  release  in  bail."  Further  documents 
appended  included  Dr.  Leary's  pacifist  testimony  at  the  celebrated  Chicago  Conspiracy  trial,  8  news 
reports  of  various  university  lectures  including  one  at  Ann  Arbor,  Michigan  early  1971  whereat  Dr. 
Leary  discoursed  to  raise  funds  for  legal  appeals  for  the  poet  John  Sinclair  also  jailed  for  several 
decades  and  denied  appeal  bail  after  conviction  for  a  year  earlier  for  having  been  entrapped  giving 
two  joints  to  a  local  bearded  agent  who'd  infiltrated  his  multiracial  Detroit  Artists'  Workshop. 
Another  disgusting  document  appended  was  a  secret  agent's  report  to  the  Laguna  Beach  Police 
Department  "concerning  additional  suspects  involved  in  the  BROTHERHOOD  OF  RELIGIOUS  LOVE. 
Refer  to  attached  report  for  additional  detail." 

Such  a  hexed  country!  "Judge  McMillan  labeled  Leary  an  insidious  and  detrimental  influence 
on  society,"  quoth  LA.  Timed  February  20,  1970,  and  a  "pleasure  seeking,  irresponsible  Madison 
Avenue  advocate  of  the  free  use  of  LSD,"  quoth  Long  Beach  Pre&&  March  17  same  year. 

Suffering  armed  fools  cheerfully,  Dr.  Leary's  made  an  exquisite  religious  covenant  in  jail. 
"Imprinting"  as  ontological  key  is  suggested,  8  re-imprinting  via  Biological  mouth-intake  (food 


Foreword       xxiii 


chemistry)  is  proposed  as  proper  philosophic  action.  Hardly  an  affair  of  State— were  we  only  to 
know  State  in  theory.  Leary's  jail  texts  economically  define  use  and  role  of  LSD;  here's  formal  psy- 
chological discussion  of  character-alteration  by  means  of  insight-creating  drugs,  such  discussion 
related  to  Socrates'  discussion  at  deathbed  8  texts  on  Catholic  Hell  Punishment,  these  juxtaposed 
with  Judiciary  reality  of  Jail  society;  all  accomplished  in  professional  manner  with  saintly  aplomb. 

What's  going  on  in  his  head?  Day  to  day  observation  of  Heavy  Metal  Fix— the  inside  facts  of 
jail— compassionate  shrewd  analysis  of  Charles  Manson  as  jail-conditioned  soul.  A  few  gists  8  piths: 
"psychopharmacology  plus  bio-rhythmic  sequential  analysis— Alchemy  8  Astrology."  Dr.  Leary's 
notes  include  disquisitions  on  Hell  from  Church  Fathers  paralleled  with  prison  weather,  as  if 
prison  were  that  Hell  spoken  of  old  incarnate  now  in  minds  of  State  Judge  8  Jailers— thoughts 
interleaved  with  quotations  from  official  rejection  letters  aren't  mailed  thru  jail  walls.  Dr.  Leary 
touches  a  few  political  nerves— J.E.  Hoover  "a  75  year  old  bachelor  virgin."  (Actually,  Sir  Tim  and 
Anyone,  Hoover,  an  ear-voyeur,  had  tapes  of  ML  King,  tapes  of  a  "wild  party."  King  was  afraid 
Hoover'd  "do  something  foolish  8  play  it  in  public."  He  did,  to  newsmen  and  various  lawmakers 
and  wire  service  folk— no  one  was  interested  in  this  old  queen's  tired  blackmail— Invasion  of  priva- 
cy anyway.) 

Dr.  Leary's  jail  Note&  make  a  science  fiction  classic,  Orwell  come  true.  As  Neal  Cassady  also'd 
spent  2  years  in  San  Quentin  a  decade  earlier,  entrapped  by  shifty  Narcotics  Agents  for  a  joint. 

An  answer  to  this  tough  problem  of  human  aggression?  Medicine,  3  lumps  hashish  daily  diet 
75%  of  Aggressiveness.  This  fact  courtesy  U.S.  Arms  Control  Disarmament  experiments  Princeton 
1970. 

Dr.  Leary  was  jailed  for  theory  and  practice  of  research  on  LSD  8  Cannabis.  A  shame  for 
Harvard,  on  the  Academics  of  America,  8  on  the  State.  "His  prophecies,"  like  those  of  Hippocrates 
he  paraphrases,  "and  his  techniques  with  potions,  if  become  widespread,  would  totally  free  each 
individual  from  State  control  and  make  possible  complete  liberty  of  consciousness." 

Dr.  Leary  had  taken  the  burden  of  giving  honest  report  of  LSD  8  Cannabis  in  terms  more  accu- 
rate 8  harmless  than  the  faked  science  of  the  Government  Party  Hacks  8  therefore  his  imprison- 
ment was  an  act  of  insult  to  Science,  Liberty,  Common  Sense,  Freedom,  Academy,  Medicine, 
Psychology  as  an  Art,  and  Poetry  as  a  tradition  of  human  mind-vision.  Well,  jail'd  honed  him  down 
to  rib  8  soul. 

*  Bail  was  not  granted.  Dr.  Leary  left  San  Luis  Obispo  jail  months  later,  on  his  own  initiative.-A.G. 
(Thi6  introduction  wad  written  by  Allen  Ginsberg  in  November  1968  and  August  1970,  and  is  reproduced  here  in 
lull,  with  minor  alteration*  (mainly  verb  tenses)  made  by  the  author  in  1995.  It  appeared  originally  in  Jail 
Notes,  Timothy  Leary '6  account  oft  his  prison  experience.  Dr.  leary  served  seven  months  oft  a  possible  ten-year 
sentence  lor  possession  oft  a  small  quantity  oft  marijuana.  He  escaped  on  the  mornins  oft  September  13, 1970.) 


xxiv        High.  Priest    +     Timothy  Leary 


Richard  Alpert 


Rf-intRQDi/cTion 


From  i960  to  1963  over  200  visionary-drug  sessions  were  guided  by  the 
Harvard  Psychedelic  Research  Project. 

The  guides  numbered  around  40.  There  were  faculty  members  S  graduate  stu- 
dents from  the  Psychology  and  Divinity  departments.  There  were,  also,  a  dozen  or 
so  distinguished  visiting  advisors  including  Allen  Ginsberg,  Aldous  Huxley,  Alan 
Watts,  William  Burroughs,  Marshall  McLuhan,  Charles  Mingus,  Arthur  Koestler,  etc. 

The  Harvard  Psychedelic  Center  functioned  as  a  global  clearing  house  for 
information  about  self-administered  brain-change  drugs. 

Please  do  not  be  put  off  by  the  ironic  title  (Priest?)  which  was  suggested  by  a 
certain,  late-night  prankster,  Paul  Krassner. 

First  let's  discuss  the  playing  rules  which  guided  these  explorations. 

The  project  personalized,  humanized,  psychologized  the  basic  playing-princi- 
ples  of  the  new  Quantum  Psychology:  Einsteinian  Relativity,  Heisenberg 
Determinacy,  Planckian  Chaotics,  McLuhan  Linguistics. 

1.  Einsteinian  Relativity... 

...when  applied  to  human  behavior,  becomes  Interpersonal  Interactivity. 
Continual  feedback  of  changing  viewpoints. 

The  traditional  role  of  impersonal  (Newtonian)  scientists  setting  up  experi- 
ments and  measuring  the  behavior  of  animal-or-human  subjects  was  outmoded. 

The  new  emphasis  on  Interpersonal  Relations  and  Field  Theory  was  marketed 
(in  various  American-British  Research  Centers  )  as  Social  Psychology,  Group 
Counseling,  Gestalt  Analysis,  Feedback  Techniques,  Client-Centered  Counseling, 
12-Step  Programs.  Hands-On  ,  D.I.Y.  (Do  It  Yourself)  methods. 

Patients  and  therapists  formed  teams  to  study  the  here-now  experiences.  The 
Staff  acted  as  coaches,  tour  guides.  The  Patients-Subjects  were  the  stars.  Our  staff 
did  not  administer  drugs  to  the  subjects.  Typically,  one  or  more  staff  members 
(guides)  would  be  selected,  by  lot,  to  trip  with  the  subjects.  We  tried  to  be 
Interpersonal  not  Impersonal. 


xx vi       High  Priest    ♦     Timothy  Leary 

The  deal  was  common-sense-fair-play. 

We  provided  Brain-Activating  drugs.  And  we  provided  books  S  reports  from 
other  trippers. 

Both  guides  and  tourists  planned  the  Setting  and  mutually  defined  the  Set,  i.e. 
the  goals. 

Divinity  students  wanted  to  have  mystical  experiences.  Prisoners  wanted  to 
learn  why  they  messed-up.  (Well,  in  candor,  it  must  be  said  that  most  prisoners 
were  happy  about  getting  "high  in  the  slammer".  They  agreed  to  write  reports  and 
fill  out  score-Boards  (questionnaires)  about  their  experiences.  The  Harvard  guides 
agreed  to  do  the  same.  This  was  our  main-street  understanding  of  Einstein's  Inter- 
Active,  Feed-Back  theories. 

The  trips  in  this  book  included  legendary  intellectuals:  Aldous  Huxley,  William 
Burroughs,  Gordon  Wasson,  Walter  Clark,  Arthur  Koestler,  Charles  Mingus, 
Maynard  and  Flora  Lou  Ferguson,  Frank  Barron,  Ralph  Metzner,  Allen  Ginsberg, 
Charles  Olson. 

Less  renowned,  but  equally  enlightening,  were  a  sophisticated  Black  Junkie,  a 
witty  British  adventurer,  a  Hip  Hindu  Lady  Guru,  a  real  tough  Boston-Mafia  mur- 
derer. And  three  courageous  Christian  Theologians. 

My  children,  Susan  and  Jack,  acted  as  guides  and  observers. 

2.  Heisenberq  Determinacy 

Observers  create  the  realities  they  inhabit.  Viewpoints.  Perspectives.  The  set- 
ting for  each  excursion  was  planned  by  the  trippers. 

Each  voyager  returns  with  different  stories  to  tell.  The  aim  is  to  take  responsi- 
bility for,  and  notes  about  the  realities  you  determine. 

3.  Planckian  Chaotics: 

The  basic  nature  of  the  universe,  we  are  told,  is  indescribable  chaotics.  Ultra- 
Complexities  which  boggle  the  word-processing  mind. 

Psychedelic  drugs  apparently  activate  "right"  brain  circuits  which  overwhelm, 
unfocus,  dilate,  disorder  the  linear  "left"  brain-mind.  (The  words  "left"  and  "right" 
are  metaphorical  and  not  anatomically  precise.)  Practically,  this  means  you  have  to 
dilate  your  pupils  to  become  a  visionary. 

One  of  the  classic  terms  for  describing  this  experience  is  "ineffable".  Chaotics 


Reintroduction        xxvii 

cannot  be  verbalized  by  the  grabbing  mind.  The  least  inaccurate  metaphor  is  "surf- 
ing" the  accelerated  neurological  oceans  of  light-waves. 

4.  McLuhan  Linguistics 

Quantum  Physics  defines  basic  elements  as  quarks;  bits  of  o-i  Information 
which  form  temporary  clouds  of  energy-matter.  The  best  way  to  describe  chaotics 
is  to  use  the  media-language  of  the  galaxies  (and  the  brain). 

Light!  VOXLUMINA 

It  is  instructive  to  recall  such  ancient  Hindu-Buddhist  words  for  the  "right 
brain"  experience  as  Illumination,  Enlightenment,  Revelation,  Visions. 

Consider  the  poetic,  lyric,  eye-balling  words  for  great  moments:  head-lights, 
high-lights,  lime-lights,  spot-lights,  brightness,  brilliance,  flame,  radiating  scintilla- 
tion. 

Sadly,  we  realized  that  books  like  High  priest  could  produce  only  squiggly  black 
letters  on  white  paper;  words  just  package-labels  for  the  neuro-retinal  events 
within. 

We  pioneer  researchers  did  try  to  enlighten  our  reports.  In  the  early  '6os  we 
studied  how  great  religions  have  used  light  to  dazzle  eyes  and  imprint  vulnerable 
brains  of  the  faithful.  Stained  glass  windows.  Candles.  Reflecting  jewels.  Gregorian 
chants.  Bells. 

So  we  developed  "light-shows".  They  were  primitive  affairs.  Light  reflected 
through  bowls  of  colored  jello.  Eight  slide-projectors  producing  layers  of  multi-col- 
ored swirling  images.  Three  or  four  sound  tracks  scrambling  ear  balls. 

Now,  30  years  later,  multi-media  digital  disks  allow  us  to  re-produce-communi- 
cate psychedelic  experiences.  Film  and  CD  ROM  versions  of  this  book,  High 
Prle&t,  are  being  developed. 

The  Inadequacy  oFThis  Book 

The  lettered  texts  presented  in  the  following  pages  employ  some  primitive 
ways  of  suggesting  the  confusing,  jumbled  complexities  of  the  "turned-on"  brain. 

Note  that  each  page  presents  an  on-going  interplay  dialogue  between 
the  viewpoints  of  the  author  and  (in  the  margins)  comments  from  other  sources. 


xxv Hi        High  Priest     ♦     Timothy 

Each  chapter  unfolds  in  the  context  of  I  CHING  readings. 

To  hint  at  the  disorder  of  the  psychedelic  experience,  we  have  occa- 
sionally used  poetic-scramble  and  the  cut-and-paste  methods  introduced  by 
William  Burroughs,  James  Joyce  and  Brian  Gysen. 

You  will  note  (and,  perhaps,  be  amused  by)  our  Breathless  Spirituality,  our  lav- 
ish use  of  religious  metaphors. 

Today,  of  course,  we  are  beginning  to  use  neurological  and  digital  terms  to 
suggest  how  we  can  operate  our  brains. 

But  in  1962  there  was  no  language  in  American  Psychology  for  these  experi- 
ences. Except  the  wretched  psychiatric  litany  of  hallucination-victim-disease. 

Drugs  like  LSD,  Mescaline,  Psylocybin  were  called  "psychotomimetic". 
Temporary  insanity! 

We  intuitively  rejected  the  Disease-Victim  model  and  relied  on  the  classic  ter- 
minology of  religious-mystical  states.  There  is  a  lot  of  heavy-duty  celestial 
name-dropping.  Gods.  Sacraments.  Miracles.  Christs.  Buddhists.  William  Blake. 
Gilgamesh.  St.  Johns  of  the  Cross.  Divine  Rascals.  Heavens  S  Hells. 

Today  we  use  the  metaphors  of  computers,  virtual  realities,  chaos  engineering, 
neurotransmitters.  Turning  on,  operating  and  fine-tuning  the  brain. 

However,  I  am  proud  of  the  pre-neurological,  theological  innocence  revealed  in 
this  book.  We  were  joyfully,  reverently  recapitulating  the  metaphors  of  medieval 
Soul  Engineering. 

And,  looking  back,  I  am  proudly  aware  of  the  survival  principles  which 
guided  us. 

Sense  oF  humors. 

Conformance  to  Laws  of  Levities. 

Celebrations  of  Chaotics. 

Illuminations,  Brain  Surfing  as  team  sports. 
So,  whether  it's  living  it  or  dying  it— 

Always  do  it:  with  friends! 


ORIGINAL  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS v 

1995  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ix 

FOREWORD  BY  ALLEN  GINSBERG xvii 

REPRODUCTION xxv 

CHRpnOLOGY  OF  TRIPS 

TRIP  1      Death  of  the  Mind:  ABYSMAL  PRELUDE. 

January  1959       Guide:  GODSDOG 1 

TRIP  2     God  Reveals  Himself  in  Mysterious  Forms: 
THE  SACRED  MUSHROOMS  OF  MEXICO. 
Au$mt  196c         Guide:  ROBERT  GORDON  WASSON 11 

TRIP  3     The  Revelation  Is  Awe-Full:  YOUTHFUL  COURAGE. 

September  i960  Guide:  JACK  LEARY 35 

TRIP  A     The  Sacrament  Solves  No  Problems:  THE  DARK  PARADOX. 

October  i960        Guide:  ALDOUS  HUXLEY 59 

TRIP  5     You  Will  Be  Hurled  Beyond  the  Good  and  Evil  Game: 
THE  RITE  TO  BE  WRONG. 
November  i960    Guide:  SUSAN  LEARY 83 

TRIP  6     The  Blueprint  to  Turn-On  the  World:  ECSTATIC  POLITICS. 

December  i960    Guide:  ALLEN  GINSBERG 109 

TRIP  7     You  Have  To  Go  Out  of  Your  Mind  To  Use  Your  Head: 
ARTHUR  KOESTLER'S  HIGH  CLIMB. 
January  1961        Guide:  FRANK  BARRON 135 

TRIP  8    The  Random  Spinning  of  the  Mind  Must  Be  Centered  by  Prayer: 
AN  EXERCISE  IN  SUGGESTIBILITY. 
February  1961      Guide:  RICHARD  ALPERT 157 

TRIP  9     The  Sacrament  Can  Liberate  the  Imprisoned: 
THE  SACRED  MUSHROOMS  GO  TO  JAIL. 
March  1961  Guide:  WILLY  (A  Black  Junkie) 173 


xxx       High  Priest     ♦     Timothy  Leary 

TRIP  10    And  The  Prisoners  Will  Become  Priests: 
THE  CONVICTS  BREAK-OUT. 
Spring  1961      Guides:  JIM  BERRIGAN,  DON  SAINTEN 191 

TRIP  11      When  the  Celestial  Messenger  Comes  Wearing  a  Fedora, 
Can  You  Suspend  Your  Games?: 
BILL  BURROUGHS  DROPS  OUT  OF  OUR  CLAN. 
Summer  1961  Guide:  BILL  BURROUGHS 213 

TRIP  12     LSD-The  Drop-Out  Drug: 

THE  SACRAMENT  ADMINISTERED  BY  A  DIVINE  RASCAL. 

Fall  1961  Guide:  MICHAEL  HOLLINGSHEAD 233 

TRIP  13     Are  Heaven  and  Hell  Real?: 

PROGRAMMING  THE  VISIONARY  EXPERIENCE. 

Winter  1961     Guide:  RALPH  METZNER 263 

TRIP  14    When  Will  You  Be  Ready  To  Admit  You  Are  a  Divine  Messenger? 
THE  SACRAMENT  GOES  TO  CHURCH. 
Spring  1962     Guide:  SAKTIf  DIVINE  NUN 281 


TRIP  15     Your  Faith  Will  Perform  Miracles: 
THE  GOOD  FRIDAY  EXPERIMENT. 

April  1962        Guides:  WALTER  CLARK,  HUSTON  SMITH,  8 
WALTER  PAHNKE 


.303 


TRIP  16    After  Your  Illumination,  Why  Come  Down?: 
THE  MEXICAN  PARADISE  LOST. 
June  1962        Guide:  KRISHNA 


349 


HiGH  PRIEST 


Facsimile  of  the  1968  Edition 


Dut  I-why  should  i  go?  By  whose  decree? 
I  am  not  paulr  nor  am  I  yet  Aeneas, 

but  deemed 
unworthy  by  myself  and  others.  Wherefore,  if  I 
allow  myself  to  go,  I  fear  it  would  be  folly. 

-DANJE  JO  VEI\GiL 


Death  of  the  Mind: 


> 

► 
r 


r1 

January  1959  § 

Guide:  godsdog 

Oracle:  III 

Difficulty  at  the  Beginning 


The  Abysmal,  Water 


The  Arousing,  Thunder 


Clouds  and  thunder: 

The  image  of  difficulty  at  the  beginning. 

Thus  the  superior  man 

Brings  order  out  of  confusion. 

(IChing) 


TRIP  1 


In  the  beginning  God  cre- 
ated the  heavens  and  the 
earth. 

The  earth  was  without  form 
and  void,  and  darkness 
was  on  the  face  of  the  deep. 

00 


Nicholas  in  The  Magus  by 
John  Fowles: 


For  a  while 
wander  into 
madness. 


let  my  mind 
j   bottomless 


Supposing  all  my  life  that 
last  year  had  been  the  very 
opposite  of  what  Conchis 
so  often  said — so  often,  to 
trick  me  once  again — about 
life  in  general. 

That  is,  the  very  opposite  of 
hazard. 

00 


And  God  said  let  there  be 
light;  and  there  was  light. 
And  God  saw  that  the  light 
was  good;  and  God  sepa- 
rated the  light  from  the 
darkness. 

00 


In  the  beginning  was  the  turn  on.  The  flash,  the 
illumination.  The  electric  trip.  The  sudden  bolt  of 
energy  that  starts  the  new  system. 

The  turn  on  was  God. 

All  things  were  made  from  the  turn  on  and 
without  Him  was  not  any  thing  made. 

In  this  turn  on  was  life;  and  the  life  was  the 
light  of  men. 

It  has  always  been  the  same. 

It  was  the  flash  that  exploded  the  galaxies,  from 
which  all  energy  flows.  It  was  the  spark  that  ignites 
in  the  mysterious  welding  of  amino-acid  strands 
that  creates  the  humming  vine  of  organic  life.  It  is 
the  brilliant  neurological  glare  that  illuminates  the 
shadows  of  mans  mind.  The  God-intoxicated  reve- 
lation. The  Divine  union.  The  vision  of  harmony, 
samadhi,  satori,  ecstasy  which  we  now  call  psy- 
chedelic. 

What  happens  when  you  turn  on?  Where  do  you 
go  when  you  take  the  trip?  You  go  within.  Con- 
sciousness changes.  Your  nerve  endings,  neural 
cameras,  cellular  memory  banks,  protein  structures 
become  broadcasting  instruments  for  the  timeless 
humming  message  of  God  located  inside  your 
body. 

The  external  world  doesn't  change,  but  your 
experience  of  it  becomes  drastically  altered. 

You  close  your  eyes  and  the  thirteen  billion  cell 
brain  computer  flashes  multiple  kaleidoscopic  mes- 
sages. Symbolic  thought  merges  with  sensory  explo- 
sions; symbolic  thoughts  fuse  with  somatic-tissue 
events;  ideas  combine  with  memories— personal, 
cellular,  evolutionary,  embryonic— thoughts  col- 
lapse into  molecular  patterns. 

You  open  your  eyes  and  you  see  your  tidy  tele- 
vision-studio world  of  labeled  stage-props  fusing 
with  sensory,  somatic,  cellular,  molecular  flashes. 


January  1959  00   3 


Your  nervous  system  is  prepared  to  register  and 
coordinate  up  to  one  thousand  million  units  of 
flashing  information  each  second. 

A  psychedelic  trip  lasts  from  five  to  twelve 
hours.  Each  trip  takes  off  from  a  stage-set  struc- 
tured by  the  physical  surroundings  and  the  cast  of 
characters  present.  Each  person  in  the  session  is  a 
universe  of  two  billion  years  of  protein,  protean 
memories,  and  sensations.  A  heady  mix. 

How  to  describe  this  multiple,  jumbled,  rapidly 
changing  process?  What  do  you  do  after  you  turn 
on? 

The  Light  shineth  in  the  darkness  and  the  dark- 
ness comprehendeth  it  not. 

You  TUNE  IN. 

tune  in  means  to  bear  witness  to  the  Light,  that 
all  men  might  believe. 

The  turn  on  bolt  shatters  structure.  Reveals  the 
frozen  nature  of  the  artificial  stage-set  men  call 
reality.  Certitude  collapses.  There  is  nothing  but 
the  energy  which  lighteneth  every  man  that  cometh 
into  the  world.  E  =  MC2. 

We  discover  we  are  not  television  actors  born 
onto  the  American  stage-set  of  a  commercially  spon- 
sored program  twenty  centuries  old.  We  are  two- 
billion-year-old  carriers  of  the  Light,  born  not  just 
of  blood  nor  of  the  will  of  the  flesh,  nor  of  the  will 
of  man,  but  of  the  Light  that  flashed  in  the  Pre- 
cambrian  mud,  the  Light  made  flesh. 

tune  in  means  that  you  sit  in  the  debris  of  your 
shattered  illusions,  and  discover  that  there  is  noth- 
ing, you  are  nothing  except  the  bearer  of  the  wire- 
coil  of  life,  that  your  body  is  the  temple  of  the  Light 
and  you  begin  once  again  to  build  a  structure  to 
preserve  and  glorify  the  Light.  You  bear  witness 
crying,  the  Sun  that  comes  after  me  is  preferred 
before  me,  and  your  days  are  spent  preparing  the 
earth  for  the  Son  to  come.  That  is  tuning  in. 

And  to  tune  in  you  must  drop  out. 

drop  out  means  detach  yourself  tenderly,  aes- 
thetically, harmoniously  from  the  fake-prop  studio 
of  the  empire  game  and  do  nothing  but  guard  and 
glorify  the  Light. 

My  first  trip  came  in  the  middle  of  the  journey 
of  this  life  (when  I  was  thirty-five  years  old)  and 


Nicholas  in  The  Magus: 

I  stared  at  myself.  They 
were  trying  to  drive  me 
mad,  to  brainwash  me  in 
some  astounding  way.  But 
I  clung  to  reality. 

00 


And  God  saw  that  it  was 
good. 

00 


From  The  Magus: 

I  cannot  believe  Maurice  is 
evil.  You  will  understand. 

00 


And  God  made  the  beasts 
of  the  earth  according  to 
their  kinds   and  the   cattle 


according  to  their  kinds, 
and  everything  that  creeps 
upon  the  ground  according 
to  its  kind.  And  God  saw 
that  it  was  good. 

00 


4  00    Death  of  the  Mind 


From  The  Magus: 

"I  come  to  tell  you  that  you 
are  now  elect."  I  shook  my 
head  violently  from  side  to 
side.  "You  have  no  choice." 

00 


awoke  to  the  consciousness  that  I  was  trapped  in  a 
dark  room,  in  a  hastily  constructed,  thin-walled 
stage-prop  home  in  Berkeley,  California,  and  the 
ribbon  of  light  had  been  lost. 

I  was  a  rootless  city-dweller.  An  anonymous  insti- 
tutional employee  who  drove  to  work  each  morning 
in  a  long  line  of  commuter  cars,  and  drove  home 
each  night  and  drank  martinis  and  looked  like  and 
thought  like  and  acted  like  several  million  middle- 
class  liberal  intellectual  robots. 

Woke  up,  fell  out  of  dead 

Made  the  bus  in  fleconds  flat 

There  was  no  connection  with  soil  or  with  my 
racial  past.  My  clan  gods  slumbered.  My  tribal 
banners  were  hidden,  forgotten  in  cellular  reposi- 
tories. 


Then  the  Lord  God  said,  "It 
is  not  good  that  the  man 
should  be  alone;  I  will  make 
him  a  helper  fit  for  him." 

00 


From  The  Magus: 

I  turned  away  again,  to  try 
to  get  her  to  say  more.  But 
she  sat  in  the  chair  and  I 
felt  her  eyes  on  my  back. 
I  knew  she  was  sitting 
there,  in  her  corn-gold 
chair,  and  that  she  was  like 
Demeter,  Ceres,  a  goddess 
on  her  throne; 

00 


How  I  entered  this  flimsy  stage-set  I  cannot  well 
recall,  so  full  was  I  of  sleep  at  the  time. 

I  dropped  out,  taking  leave  from  my  job  (as 
Director  of  Psychological  Research  for  the  Kaiser 
Foundation  Hospital)  and  sailing  for  Spain  on  the 
S.S.  Independence,  American  Export  Lines,  with 
my  two  children,  Susan,  age  nine,  and  Jack,  age 
seven. 

We  settled  in  a  villa  in  Torremolinos  on  the 
Costa  del  Sol.  There  the  kids  trooped  off  across 
the  field  to  school  each  morning  while  I  stayed 
home  to  die  messily. 

The  coast  of  Spain  Malaga  to  Gibraltar  is  the 
southernmost  part  of  Europe,  and  down  to  this 
bottom  sift  and  fall  the  psychological  dregs  of  the 
Continent— drunken  Swedes,  cashiered  Danes, 
twisted  Germans,  sodden  British. 

The  main  occupation  of  the  Torremolinos  colony 
was  drug  taking— and  the  drug  was  alcohol. 

Found  my  way  upstairs  and  had  a  poke 

I  had  brought  with  me  a  trunk  full  of  psycho- 
logical data— thousands  of  test  scores  and  numer- 
ical indices  which  demonstrated  with  precision  why 
psychotherapy  did  not  work.  In  America,  I  had  a 
staff  of  statisticians  and  clerks  and  rooms  of  calcu- 
lators and  computers  to  handle  the  data.  But  I  had 
said  good-bye  to  all  that  and  sat  sweating  in  a 
small  room  in  a  Spanish  house  adding  and  sub- 
tracting long  columns  of  figures.  Hour  after  hour. 


6  00    Death  of  the  Mind 


Then  the  man  said,  "This  at 
last  is  bone  of  my  bones 
and  flesh  of  my  flesh;  she 
shall  be  called  woman,  be- 
cause she  was  taken  out  of 
man." 

00 


But  I  just  had  a  book 

Having  read  the  look 

It  was  a  brutal  yoga.  Each  laborious  calculation 
was  proving  that  psychology  was  just  a  mind-game, 
an  eccentric  head  trip  on  the  part  of  psychologists, 
and  that  psychotherapy  was  an  arduous,  expensive, 
ineffective,  unimaginative  attempt  to  impose  the 
mind  of  the  doctor  on  the  mind  of  the  patient. 

Each  arithmetical  index  was  pushing  me  farther 
and  farther  from  my  chosen  profession. 

And  though  the  moles  were  rather  small 

I  had  to  count  them  all 

The  dying  process  was  slow. 

I  would  throw  down  the  ballpoint  pen  and  walk 
fast  to  the  main  street  of  the  village  and  sit  in  a 
bar  and  drink  and  talk  detached-zombie-fashion 
with  the  expatriates  and  leave  abruptly  and  run 
back  to  the  house  and  continue  the  paralyzing  cal- 
culations, sweating  in  panic. 

Now  he  knows  how  many  moles  it  takes  to  fill 
the  Alpert  Hall 

Boredom,  black  depression,  flashes  of  frantic, 
restless  anxiety.  No  place  to  go. 

/  led  the  news  today  oh  joy 

And  though  the  views  was  rather  mad 

In  December  the  rains  came  and  the  Mediter- 
ranean was  gray  and  cold.  On  Christmas  Eve  I  met 
a  young,  runaway  prostitute  from  Valencia  and  took 
her  home.  By  New  Years  I  had  the  clap. 


From  The  Magus: 

"You  may  search  the 
house."  She  watched  me, 
chin  on  hand,  in  the  yellow 
chair;  unnettled;  in  posses- 
sion. Of  what,  I  didn't  know; 
but  in  possession.  I  felt  like 
a  green  young  dog  in  pur- 
suit of  a  cunning  old  hare; 
every  time  I  leapt,  I  bit 
brown  air. 

00 


Times  of  growth  are  beset  with  difficulties.  They 
resemble  a  first  birth.  But  these  difficulties  arise 
from  the  very  profusion  of  all  that  is  struggling  to 
attain  form.  Everything  is  in  motion:  therefore  if 
one  perseveres  there  is  a  prospect  of  great  success, 
in  spite  of  the  existing  danger.  When  it  is  a  mans 
fate  to  undertake  such  new  beginnings,  everything 
is  still  unformed,  dark.  ( I  Ching  III ) 

In  the  middle  of  January  I  moved  with  the  kids 
to  a  steam-heated  hotel,  but  Jack's  un-house-trained 
puppy  and  my  distant  gloom  freaked  the  owner,  so 
I  moved  to  an  apartment  tunneled  into  the  rock  at 
the  foot  of  Calle  San  Miguel.  It  was  a  cave  with 
oozing  stone  walls.  The  beds  were  always  damp. 


January  1959  00    7 


Well  I  just  had  to  graph 

There  the  break-through-break-down  started. 

It  began  in  the  head.  One  morning  my  scalp  be- 
gan to  itch.  By  noon  it  was  unbearable.  Each  hair 
root  was  a  burning  rod  of  sensation.  My  hair  was  a 
cap  of  fire.  I  ran  down  the  beach  and  cut  my  feet 
on  rocks  to  keep  from  ripping  my  fingers  through 
my  scalp. 

By  evening  my  face  began  to  swell  and  huge 
water  blisters  erupted  from  my  cheeks.  A  young 
Danish  doctor  came,  injected  me  with  a  huge 
needle,  and  gave  me  sleeping  pills. 

Somebody  broke  and  1  went  into  a  steam 

In  the  morning  I  was  blind— eyes  shut  tight  by 
swollen  tissue  and  caked  with  dried  pus.  I  felt  my 
way  to  the  bathroom,  lit  a  candle,  and  pried  open 
one  eye  before  the  mirror. 

Broke  up,  sell  out  of  bed 

In  the  oblong  glass  I  saw  the  twisted,  tormented 
face  of  an  insane  stranger. 

I  saw  the  rotograph 

A  Spanish  doctor  came  and  gave  me  more  shots 
and  more  sleeping  pills.  He  had  never  seen  such  a 
case  before.  Jack  and  Susan  crept  into  the  room  to 
look  at  me  with  big  sorrowful  eyes.  The  bed  was 
cold  and  soggy  but  I  slept. 

The  third  day  the  disease  had  spread  to  my 
body.  Huge  watery  welts  blossomed  on  my  back, 
stomach,  and  flanks.  Both  the  Danish  and  the 
Spanish  doctors  shook  their  heads,  and  both  in- 
jected me  from  large  metal  hypodermics. 

In  the  afternoon  I  hired  a  taxi  and  was  driven 
to  Malaga  to  consult  the  specialist.  His  eyes  bulged 
and  he  shook  his  head  and  gave  me  two  injec- 
tions. 

I'd  ove  turned  you  on 

Before  returning  to  Torremolinos  I  sat  at  a  side- 
walk cafe  and  drank  a  Coca-Cola.  A  pretty,  young 
Swedish  girl  joined  me.  She  was  traveling  with  her 
parents  and  was  bored  and  rebellious,  hungry  for 
adventure.  She  steamed  with  erotic  vapor.  I  looked 
at  her  and  smiled  weakly.  See  you  later. 

Back  at  Torremolinos  the  doctors  agreed  I  should 
move  to  a  steam-heated  hotel.  We  had  to  smuggle 
the  dog  in.  Jack  and  Susan  left  to  stay  with  a 


But  the  serpent  said  to  the 
woman,  "You  will  not  die. 
For  God  knows  that  when 
you  eat  of  it  your  eyes  will 
be  opened,  and  you  will  be 
like  God,  knowing  good  and 
evil." 

00 


From  The  Magus: 

"Responsibility!"  I  wheeled 
round  on  her  again.  "Do 
you  really  think  we  do  this 
just  for  you?  Do  you  really 
believe  we  are  not  .  .  . 
charting  the  voyage?" 

00 


But  the  Lord  God  called  to 
the  man,  and  said  to  him, 
"Where  are  you?"  And  he 
said,  "I  heard  the  sound  of 
thee  in  the  garden,  and  I 
was  afraid,  because  I  was 
naked;  and  I  hid  myself." 

00 


8  00    Death  off  the  Mind 


From  The  Magus: 

"With  all  the  necessity  of  a 
very  complex  experiment." 
"I  like  my  experiments 
simple."  "The  days  of  simple 
experiments  are  over." 

00 


sabbatical  family  from  the  University  of  Pennsyl- 


vania. 


The  Lord  God  said  to  the 
serpent,  "...  I  will  put 
enmity  between  you  and 
the  woman,  and  between 
your   seed    and    her   seed. 

00 


Therefore  the  Lord  God 
sent  him  forth  from  the  gar- 
den of  Eden,  to  till  the 
ground  from  which  he  was 
taken.  He  drove  out  the 
man;  and  at  the  east  of  the 
garden  of  Eden  he  placed 
the  cherubim,  and  a  flaming 
sword  which  turned  every 
way,  to  guard  the  way  to 
the  tree  of  life. 

00 


By  night  the  disease  had  spread  to  my  extrem- 
ities. My  wrists  and  hands  were  swollen  to  arthritic 
paralysis.  My  ankles  and  feet  ballooned.  I  couldn't 
walk  or  move  my  fingers.  I  sat  in  the  darkness  for 
several  hours  and  then  came  the  scent  of  decay. 
Overpowering  odor  of  disintegration. 

I  got  up  from  the  chair,  but  my  feet  buckled  and  I 
fell  to  my  knees.  I  crawled  across  the  room  to  the 
electric  switch  and  pulled  myself  up  to  flick  on  the 
light. 

He  didn't  notice  that  the  frights  had  changed 

Jack's  puppy  had  been  very  sick  and  a  rivulet  of 
yellow  shit  ran  along  the  floor.  We  would  be  ex- 
pelled from  the  hotel  if  the  chambermaid  found  the 
evidence.  I  crawled  to  the  bathroom  and  pulled 
down  a  roll  of  toilet  paper.  For  the  next  hour  I  crept 
along  the  tile  floor  cleaning  up  the  mess.  It  was 
slimy  mucus.  The  color  of  peanut  butter. 

I  crawled  to  the  bathroom.  The  toilet  didn't  work. 
I  crawled  to  the  window  which  overlooked  the  back 
yard  of  the  hotel  and  heaved  out  the  wad  of  toilet 
paper. 

There  were  electric  wires  about  four  feet  below 
the  window  and  the  discolored  strings  of  paper 
caught  on  the  wires  and  hung  down  like  banners 
swaying  in  the  breeze.  Flag  of  my  action. 

Using  an  umbrella  as  a  cane,  I  hobbled  along  the 
hallway,  down  the  back  stairs,  and  across  the  rutted 
muddy  back  yard.  Each  step  was  torture.  I  fell 
several  times.  I  stood  on  a  packing  crate  and  flailed 
at  the  paper  banner  like  a  madman  fighting  vul- 
tures. 

Clouds  and  thunder  are  represented  by  definite 
decorative  lines;  this  means  that  in  the  chaos  of 
difficulty  at  the  beginning,  order  is  already  implicit. 
So  too  the  superior  man  has  to  arrange  and  organize 
the  inchoate  profusion  of  such  times  of  beginning, 
just  as  one  sorts  out  silk  threads  from  a  knotted 
tangle  and  binds  them  into  skeins.  In  order  to  find 
one's  place  in  the  infinity  of  being,  one  must  be  able 
both  to  separate  and  to  unite.  ( I  Ching  III ) 


January  1959  00   9 


By  the  time  I  wrenched  back  to  the  room,  two 
hours  had  elapsed.  I  was  weak  and  trembling.  I 
slumped  in  the  chair  for  the  rest  of  the  dark  night, 
wrapped  in  a  Burberry  mackintosh. 

I  died.  I  let  go.  Surrendered. 

I  slowly  let  every  tie  to  my  old  life  slip  away.  My 
career,  my  ambitions,  my  home.  My  identity.  The 
guilts.  The  wants. 

With  a  sudden  snap,  all  the  ropes  of  my  social  self 
were  gone.  I  was  a  thirty-eight-year-old  male  animal 
with  two  cubs.  High,  completely  free. 

I  could  feel  some  seed  of  life  stirring  inside  and 
energy  uncoil.  When  the  dawn  came  I  moved  my 
hands.  The  swelling  was  gone.  I  found  a  pen  and 
paper.  I  wrote  three  letters.  One  to  my  employers, 
telling  them  I  was  not  returning  to  my  job.  A  second 
to  my  insurance  agent  to  cash  in  my  policies.  And 
a  third  long  manuscript  to  a  colleague,  spelling  out 
certain  revelations  about  the  new  psychology,  the 
limiting  artifactual  nature  of  the  mind,  the  unfold- 
ing possibilities  of  mind-free  consciousness,  the  lib- 
erating effect  of  the  ancient  rebirth  process  that 
comes  only  through  death  of  the  mind. 

The  ordeal  in  Spain  was  the  first  of  some  four  hun- 
dred death-rebirth  trips  I  have  experienced  since 
1958.  The  first  step  was  non-chemical.  Or  was  it? 


Conchis  in  The  Magus: 

He  leant  forward,  after  a 
long  silence,  and  turned  up 
the  lamp;  then  stared  at  me. 


"The  disadvantage  of  our 
new  drama  is  that  in  your 
role  you  do  not  know  what 
you  can  believe  and  what 
you  cannot." 

00 


DIFFICULTY  AT  THE  BEGINNING: 

Works  supreme  success, 
Furthering  through  perseverance. 
Nothing  should  be  undertaken. 
It  furthers  one  to  appoint  helpers. 

(IChing) 


<tt 


s 


God  Reveals  Himself 

in  Mysterious  Forms : 

a 
o 

August  1960 

d 

X 

Guide: 

ROBERT 

GORDON  WASSON 

B 

O 

s 

Oracle: 

XVI 

Enthusiasm 

S 

a- ; 

The  Arousing,  Thunder 
The  Receptive,  Earth 

2 

ra 

U  J 

X 

HH 

o 

o 

■■■■■ 

^^^ 

Thunder  comes  resounding  out  of  the  earth: 

The  image  of  enthusiasm. 

Thus  the  ancient  kings  made  music 

In  order  to  honor  merit, 

And  offered  it  with  splendor 

(IChing) 


TRIP  2 


From  Hallucinogenic  Fungi 
of  Mexico  by  Robert  Gor- 
don Wasson: 

I  do  not  recall  which  of  us, 
my  wife  or  I,  first  dared  to 
put  into  words  back  in  the 
forties  the  surmise  that  our 
own  remote  ancestors,  per- 
haps 4,000  years  ago,  wor- 
shipped a  divine  mush- 
room. 


In  the  fall  of  1952  we 
learned  that  the  16th  cen- 
tury writers,  describing  the 
Indian  cultures  of  Mexico, 
had  recorded  that  certain 
mushrooms  played  a  divine 
role  in  the  religion  of  the 
natives. 


The  so-called  mushroom 
stones  really  represented 
mushrooms,  and  that  they 
were  the  symbol  of  a  reli- 
gion, like  the  cross  in  the 
Christian  religion  or  the  star 
of  Judea  or  the  crescent  of 
the  Moslems. 


I  was  first  drugged  out  of  my  mind  in  Cuernavaca, 
August  i960.  I  ate  seven  of  the  Sacred  Mushrooms 
of  Mexico  and  discovered  that  beauty,  revelation, 
sensuality,  the  cellular  history  of  the  past,  God,  the 
Devil— all  lie  inside  my  body,  outside  my  mind. 

In  the  days  of  Montezuma  this  town  called  horn- 
of-the-cow  was  the  center  of  soothsayers,  wise-men, 
and  magicians.  Cuernavaca  is  the  southern  anchor 
point  of  a  line  running  from  the  fabled  volcanic 
peaks  Popo  and  Iztaccihuatl  over  to  the  volcano  of 
Toluca.  On  the  high  slopes  of  the  volcanoes,  east 
and  west  of  the  capital,  grow  the  Sacred  Mushrooms 
of  Mexico,  divinatory  fungi,  Teonanacatl,  flesh  of 
the  Gods. 

In  the  summer  of  i960  Cuernavaca  was  the  site 
of  considerable  activity  by  American  psychologists 
—soothsayers,  medicine  men,  would-be  magicians— 
from  the  North— vacationing  on  research  grants  and 
working  in  the  lush  valley  of  Morelos  in  sight  of  the 
snowy  peaks  of  the  legendary  volcanoes. 

Erich  Fromm  was  running  an  experimental  proj- 
ect down  the  highway,  studying  the  social  and  emo- 
tional currents  of  Indian  village  life. 

Over  in  Tepoztlan,  ten  miles  to  the  east,  Professor 
David  McClelland,  on  vacation  from  Harvard,  was 
working  on  plans  to  help  underdeveloped  countries 
raise  their  economic  standards  through  psychologi- 
cal techniques  and  the  Protestant  ethic.  His  statis- 
tics showed  that  Catholic,  Moslem,  Buddhist  coun- 
tries were  poor. 

Elliot  Danzig,  Mexico's  leading  industrial  psy- 
chologist, was  a  few  cornfields  away  in  his  villa 
which  sits  next  to  the  cliff  under  the  altar  of  the  God 
Tepozteco.  It  was  at  this  altar,  often  shrouded  in 
rain  clouds,  that  the  Aztecs  had  worshipped  the 
God,  Tepozteco,  to  drumrolls  of  the  arousing 
12 


August  1960  00    13 


thunder  and  bolts  of  lightning,  the  clinging  flame. 
It  was  he  who  showered  down  blessings  including 
the  gift  of  pulque  ...  a  milky  beer  fermented 
from  cactus,  which  contains  its  own  abundance  of 
thunder  over  the  earth. 

In  Cuernavaca  another  villa  served  as  summer 
headquarters  for  four  American  psychologists- 
Timothy  Leary  and  Richard  Alpert  of  Harvard, 
Frank  Barron  of  California,  and  Richard  Dettering 
of  San  Francisco. 


Thus  we  find  a  mushroom 
in  the  center  of  the  cult 
with  perhaps  the  longest 
continuous  history  in  the 
world. 


The  happenings  of  that  summer  in  quiet  Cuerna- 
vaca were  to  set  up  reverberations  which  have 
echoed  now  for  years.  Many  of  the  scientists  who 
were  working  and  vacationing  there  that  season 
have  had  their  lives  dramatically  changed,  and  none 
of  them  will  ever  completely  escape  from  the  myste- 
rious power,  the  challenge,  the  paradox  of  what 
started  to  unfold. 

I  was  working  on  a  book  about  the  philosophy  of 
the  behavioral  sciences.  I  was  dissatisfied  with  the 
theory  and  methods  of  psychology  and  trying  to 
develop  an  existential-transactional  approach  to  the 
study  of  human  events. 

Existential  means  you  study  natural  events  as 
they  unfold  without  prejudging  them  with  your  own 
concepts.  You  surrender  your  mind  to  the  events. 

Transactional  means  you  see  the  research  situa- 
tion as  a  social  network,  of  which  the  experimenter 
is  one  part.  The  psychologist  doesn't  stand  outside 
the  event,  but  recognizes  his  part  in  it,  and  works 
collaboratively  with  the  subject  towards  mutually 
selected  goals. 

This  philosophic  position,  when  applied,  gener- 
ates a  lot  of  emotion.  For  one  thing,  it  bypasses  the 
traditional  experimenter-subject  and  doctor-patient 
relationships.  It  tells  the  doctor  and  the  scientist  to 
relax  his  control.  It  urges  that  everyman  be  his  own 
scientist.  Do  his  own  research.  It  bypasses  the  con- 
trolled experiment  in  favor  of  the  natural  sequence 
of  behavior.  You  don't  have  to  design  an  experi- 
ment, Dr.  Jones,  you  are  already  part  of  one. 

The  1967  phenomenon  of  several  million  Ameri- 
cans taking  LSD  on  their  own,  exploring  their  own 
consciousness,  doing  it  themselves,  developing  their 


We  have  found  this  cult  of 
the  divine  mushroom  a  rev- 
elation, in  the  true  meaning 
of  that  abused  word,  though 
for  the  Indians  it  is  an 
everyday  feature,  albeit  a 
holy  mystery,  of  their  lives. 


There  are  no  apt  words  .  .  . 
to  characterize  your  state 
when  you  are,  shall  we  say, 
"Bemush  roomed." 


What  we  need  is  a  vocabu- 
lary to  describe  all  the 
modalities  of  a  divine  in- 
ebriant. 


14  00   God  Reveals  Himself 


These  difficulties  in  com- 
municating have  played 
their  part  in  certain  amus- 
ing situations.  Two  psychia- 
trists who  have  taken  the 
mushroom  and  known  the 
experience  in  its  full  dimen- 
sions have  been  criticized 
in  professional  circles  as 
being  no  longer  "objec- 
tive." 


Thus  we  are  all  divided 
into  two  classes:  those  who 
have  taken  the  mushroom 
and  are  disqualified  by  our 
subjective  experience  and 
those  who  have  not  taken 
the  mushroom  and  are  dis- 
qualified by  their  total  ig- 
norance of  the  subject. 


I  am  profoundly  grateful  to 
my  Indian  friends  for  having 
initiated  me  into  the  tre- 
mendous mystery  of  the 
mushroom. 


Of  alcohol  they  speak  with 
the  same  jocular  vulgarity 
that  we  do.  But  about  mush- 
rooms they  prefer  not  to 
speak  at  all,  at  least  when 
they  are  in  company  and 
especially  when  strangers, 
white  strangers,  are  pres- 
ent. 


own  methods  of  turning-on,  is  nothing  less  than  an 
existential-transactional  revolution  in  psychology. 
The  professionals— the  doctors  and  the  experimen- 
talists and  the  government  officials— don't  like  it. 
The  idea  of  people  going  out  and  solving  their  own 
problems,  changing  their  own  consciousness,  irri- 
tates the  doctors.  They  say  it's  indiscriminate,  un- 
supervised, uncontrolled,  and  basically  for  kicks. 
They  are  right.  It  is  and  it  should  be.  That's  what 
life  itself  is.  An  indiscriminate,  unsupervised,  un- 
controlled two-billion-year-old  energy  dance  with 
ecstatic  communion  as  the  goal. 

These  laws  are  not  forces  external  to  things  but 
represent  the  harmony  of  movement  immanent  in 
them.  That  is  why  the  celestial  bodies  do  not 
deviate  from  their  orbits  and  why  all  events  in 
nature  occur  with  fixed  regularity.  ( I  Ching  XVI ) 

The  villa  in  Cuernavaca,  which  became  the  back- 
drop for  my  mushroom  revelations,  needs  to  be 
described.  The  setting,  the  surrounding,  is  a  key 
factor  in  the  outcome  of  any  visionary  voyage 
whether  you  use  mushrooms  or  marijuana  or  LSD  or 
rosary  beads,  and  in  this  regard  the  Cuernavaca 
mushroom  eaters  were  fortunate. 

The  Spanish-style  villa  was  out  on  the  Acapulco 
road  near  the  golf  course.  It  was  a  rambling  white 
stucco  house  with  scarlet  trim,  surrounded  by  gray 
stone  walls.  The  walls  were  pierced  by  two  red-iron 
scroll  gates  and  there  was  a  long  veranda  and 
a  wide  staircase  leading  down  to  a  carriage  drive. 
Down  below  was  a  sloping  lawn  ringed  by  flowers. 
Two  rows  of  red  urns  flanked  the  stairs. 

The  villa  had  been  built  by  Mexican  Moslems  and 
remodeled  by  Mexican  Viennese.  It  was  colorful, 
open,  and  lush. 

Next  to  the  upper  terrace  was  the  swimming  pool, 
lake  blue,  and  the  lawn  fell  away  downslope  to  a 
lower  green  terraced  lawn.  The  close-cropped  turf 
was  thick  rough  Cuernavaca  grass,  good  to  look  at 
but  matting  into  heavy  piled  green  carpet,  scraping 
your  bare  feet  and  leaving  tattooed  welts  on  your 
back  after  you  lay  on  it. 


August  1960  00    15 


The  lower  lawn  was  shaded  by  lacy  Ahuehuate 
trees,  and  on  the  walls  of  the  villa,  vines,  green, 
splashed  with  red,  yellow,  orange,  and  the  clear 
blue  of  the  mile-high  Morelos  sky  and  the  lush 
green  of  the  golf  course  fairway  down  below  the 
wall. 

Summer  days  .  .  .  swimming  trunks  before 
breakfast  .  .  .  ontological  discussions  .  .  .  the  cold 
grapefruit  eaten  by  hot  poolside  .  .  .  the  egocen- 
tric fallacy  of  the  doctor-patient  relationship  .  .  . 
touch  football  on  the  lawn  .  .  .  the  imposition  of 
psychological  categories  on  the  flow  of  life  .  .  . 
clear  hot  sun  burning  tanned  skin  .  .  .  the  need  to 
collaborate  with  subjects  .  .  .  the  startle  value  of 
iced  drinks  .  .  .  the  anti-exisfcential  impact  of  the 
Mexico  City  News  with  its  Aristotelian  structure 
of  essences  and  abstractions  .  .  .  the  shouts  of 
Jack  Leary  and  the  Mexican  boy,  Pepe,  chasing 
ducks  on  the  lower  lawn  .  .  .  visitors  from  Mexico 
City  defined  wider  bounds  for  inquiry  .  .  .  the 
sudden  cooling  splash  of  the  evening  rain  .  .  . 
Dewey  and  Bentley  .  .  .  Kennedy  and  Nixon  .  .  . 
thunder  and  earth  .  .  .  the  sky  over  the  volca- 
noes .  .  .  candles  at  dinner. 

Be  like  the  sun  at  midday. 

A  frequent  visitor  was  Gerhart  Braun,  anthropol- 
ogist-historian-linguist from  the  University  of  Mex- 
ico. With  him  would  come  Joan,  his  girl  friend, 
and  Betty,  an  English  major  from  the  University  of 
California,  who  wrote  poetry  and  cracked  jokes  and 
played  touch  football  with  the  kids. 

Gerhart  had  been  studying  the  Aztec  culture  and 
translating  old  texts  written  in  Nahuatl,  the  lan- 
guage used  by  the  Aztecs  before  the  conquest.  He 
had  discovered  repeated  references  to  the  use  of 
Sacred  Mushrooms  by  Aztec  soothsayers  on  cere- 
monial occasions  to  predict  the  future,  to  feel  better, 
to  solve  mental  problems. 

On  the  eve  of  the  Emperor's  coronation  Mexico 
City  got  high  on  mushrooms.  But  the  Spanish  his- 
torians, most  of  them  priests,  rarely  mentioned  the 
magic  mushrooms.  And  when  they  did  it  was  in 
prudish,  frightened  terms.  Evil!  Danger!  Fear! 


Then,  when  evening  and 
darkness  come  and  you  are 
alone  with  a  wise  old  man 
or  woman  whose  confi- 
dence you  have  won,  by 
the  light  of  a  candle  held 
in  the  hand  and  talking  in 
a  whisper,  you  may  bring 
up  the  subject. 


They  are  never  exposed  in 
the  marketplace  but  pass 
from  hand  to  hand  by  pre- 
arrangement. 


The  Aztecs  before  the 
Spanish  arrived  called 
them  Teonanacatl,  God's 
flesh.  I  need  hardly  remind 
you  of  a  disquieting  para' 
lei,  the  designation  of  the 
elements  in  our  Eucharist: 

"Take,  eat,  this  is  my 
body  .  .  .",  and  again, 
"Grant  us  therefore,  gra- 
cious Lord,  so  to  eat  the 
flesh  of  Thy  dear  son.  .  .  ." 


16  00    God  Reveals  Himself 


The  orthodox  Christian 
must  accept  by  faith  the 
miracle  of  the  conversion 
of  the  bread  into  God's 
flesh:  That  is  what  is  meant 
by  the  Doctrine  of  Transub- 
stantiation. 


By  contrast,  the  mushroom 
of  the  Aztecs  carries  its 
own  conviction;  every  com- 
municant will  testify  to  the 
miracle  that  he  has  experi- 
enced. 


In  the  language  of  the 
Mazatecs  the  sacred  mush- 
rooms are  called  'nti  si  tho. 
The  first  word,  'nti,  is  a  par- 
ticle expressing  reverence 
and  endearment.  The  sec- 
ond element  means  "that 
which  springs  forth." 


Gerhart's  curiosity  was  aroused  and  he  had  asked 
around  about  the  mushrooms  and  discovered  that 
they  grew  on  the  volcanic  slopes  near  Mexico  City. 

So  one  day  we  drove  up  to  the  village  of  San 
Pedro  near  the  volcano  of  Toluca  and  walked 
around  the  marketplace  asking  about  the  Sacred 
Mushrooms.  Bruce  Conner  came  with  us  shooting 
movies,  dancing  around  filming  the  sides  of  meat 
hanging  in  the  butcher  shops  and  the  swarms  of 
black  flies  and  the  piles  of  fruit,  the  sidewalk  dis- 
plays of  cloth  woven  in  red  and  yellow  seed  and 
cell  designs. 

There  was  much  thoughtful  shaking  of  heads  by 
the  shopkeepers  when  the  mushrooms  were  men- 
tioned—and conversation  in  low  Spanish  in  the 
back  rooms.  Old  Juana  was  the  one  to  see.  Where 
did  one  find  Juana?  She  would  come  to  the  market. 
Wait  right  here  under  the  arch.  She'll  come  soon. 

We  stood  there  for  an  hour  while  the  sandaled 
market-day  crowds  padded  by.  An  old  woman, 
backbent,  gray  stringy  hair,  black  shawl,  eyes  down, 
creaking  stiffly,  Senora  Juana.  She  brushed  by  us, 
not  responding  to  our  hail,  not  stopping  or  looking 
up  at  us. 

She  passed  through  the  market  street  and  turned 
at  the  corner  and  walked  away  from  the  village.  We 
followed  along  the  rutted  dirt  road,  and  on  the 
outskirts  of  town  Gerhart  walked  faster  and  caught 
up  with  Juana.  She  stopped  and  they  began  to  talk. 

We  stood  back  and  waited  and  watched.  Juana 
seemed  to  be  listening,  then  she  looked  up  at 
Gerhart,  nodded  her  head,  pointed  up  to  the  moun- 
tain, turned,  pointed  back  to  the  town,  and  then 
started  off  down  the  road. 

Gerhart  returned  to  us  smiling.  Okay.  It's  all  set. 
She'll  get  the  mushrooms  next  Wednesday  and  I'll 
meet  her  in  the  marketplace  next  Thursday. 

The  following  Thursday  Gerhart  phoned  from 
Mexico  City.  Excited.  He  had  met  Juana  in  the 
market.  They  had  gone  away  from  the  tumult  of 
the  market  to  the  shade  of  a  church  wall.  He  asked 
her  if  she  was  sure  they  were  safe.  She  popped  two 
of  them  in  her  mouth  before  his  eyes.  He  washed 
them  in  cold  water,  and  they  are  resting  now  on  the 
center  shelf  of  his  refrigerator.  See  you  Saturday. 


August  1960  00    17 


Saturday,  the  day  of  visions,  dawned  sunny  and 
clear.  Around  noon  Gerhart  and  his  group  arrived 
from  Mexico  City.  Joan  and  Betty  the  poet. 

I  met  them  on  the  lawn  and  the  group  stood  in 
a  welcoming  circle.  My  son  Jack's  iguana,  a  four- 
foot  dinosaur,  crawled  up  and  lay  on  his  belly, 
blinking  his  black  ancient  ebony  eyes,  and  everyone 
stooped  to  inspect  the  long  blunt  snout,  the  pat- 
terned design  of  his  canvas  skin,  our  old  friend  who 
crawled  up  from  the  crevice  of  our  planet's  history 
and  breathed  slowly  and  flicked  his  lids  and 
watched  us  live  and  die.  They  said  he  was  a  hun- 
dred years  old. 

The  maid  was  surprised  when  we  walked  into 
the  kitchen  to  wash  the  hongos  and  she  was  even 
more  surprised  to  learn  that  we  weren't  planning  to 
cook  them.  Crudos?  Her  dark  eyes  narrowed.  Then 
the  resigned  shrug.  Americans  are  eccentric. 

Gerhart  had  talked  with  the  University  botanists 
and  had  researched  the  field  thoroughly.  So  while 
he  supervised  the  cleaning  he  started  to  lecture  on 
the  mushrooms.  Known  and  used  by  the  Aztecs. 
Banned  by  the  Catholic  church.  Said  by  leading 
botanists  not  even  to  exist!  The  trance-giving  mush- 
rooms. Pushed  out  of  history's  notice  until  the  last 
decade  when  they  had  been  discovered  by  Weit- 
linger  and  Schultes  and  the  American  mycologists, 
Valentina  and  Gordon  Wasson.  Pause  to  clear 
throat.  By  now  they  had  been  eaten  by  a  few 
scientists,  a  few  poets,  a  few  intellectuals  looking 
for  mystical  experiences.  They  produced  wondrous 
trances.  Oh  yeah?  What  does  he  mean  by  that? 

There  were  two  kinds,  females  and  males.  The 
lady  mushrooms  were  the  familiar  umbrella  shape, 
but  black,  ominous,  bitter-looking.  The  male's  anat- 
omy was  so  phallic  there  was  no  need  to  ask  why 
they  were  called  males.  Wondrous  trances.  The 
words  meant  nothing.  We  moved  out  to  the  pool. 

The  mushrooms  were  in  two  large  bowls,  male 
and  female  separate,  on  the  table  under  the  huge 
beach  umbrella.  Gerhart  was  still  lecturing,  now 
about  the  dosage.  Six  females  and  six  males.  The 
effect  should  begin  after  an  hour.  Then  he  stuffed  a 
big,  black,  moldy-damp  mushroom  in  his  mouth 
and  made  a  face  and  chewed  and  I  watched  his 


"The  little  mushroom  comes 
of  itself,  no  one  knows 
whence,  like  the  wind  that 
comes  we  know  not  whence 
nor  why." 


For  more  than  four  cen- 
turies the  Indians  have  kept 
the  divine  mushroom  close 
to  their  hearts,  sheltered 
from  desecration  by  white 
men,  a  precious  secret. 


We  know  that  today  there 
are  many  curanderos  who 
carry  on  the  cult,  each  ac- 
cording to  his  lights,  some 
of  them  consummate  artists, 
performing  the  ancient 
liturgy  in  remote  huts  be- 
fore minuscule  congrega- 
tions. 


They    are    hard    to    reach, 
these  curanderos. 


Do   not  think  that   it   is  a 
question  of  money. 


18  00    God  Reveals  Himself 


Perhaps  you  will  learn  the 
names  of  a  number  of  re- 
nowned curanderos,  and 
your  emissaries  will  even 
promise  to  deliver  them  to 
you,  but  then  you  wait  and 
wait  and  they  never  come. 


You  will  brush  past  them  in 
the  marketplace,  they  will 
know  you,  but  you  will  not 
know  them. 


The  judge  in  the  town  hall 
may  be  the  very  man  you 
are  seeking:  And  you  may 
pass  the  *ime  of  day  with 
him,  yet  jver  learn  that  he 
is  your  curandero. 


After  all,  would  you  have  it 
any  different?  What  priest 
of  the  Catholic  Church  will 
perform  mass  to  satisfy  an 
unbeliever's  curiosity? 


Adam's  apple  bounce  as  it  went  down.  Gerhart 
was  voyager  number  one. 

I  picked  one  up.  It  stank  of  forest  damp  and 
crumbling  logs  and  New  England  basement.  Are 
you  sure  they  are  not  poisonous? 

Gerhart  shrugged.  That's  what  I  asked  the  old 
witch  and  she  swore  that  they  were  okay  and  she 
popped  a  few  in  her  mouth  to  demonstrate. 

I  looked  around.  Joan,  following  Gerhart's  exam- 
ple, was  munching  somewhat  unhappily.  She  was 
explorer  number  two. 

Mandy,  my  girl  friend,  was  miserably  chewing. 
She  was  number  three. 

Dick  Dettering  was  looking  down  so  that  the 
loose  pouches  under  his  eyes  sagged.  Well,  Dicko? 
He  gave  a  fierce  scared  look  and  began  to  nibble  at 
his  palm  with  squirrelly  movement.  He  was  number 
four. 

I  went  next.  They  tasted  worse  than  they  looked. 
Bitter,  stringy.  Filthy.  I  took  a  slug  of  Carta  Blanca 
and  jammed  the  rest  in  my  mouth  and  washed  them 
down.  Number  five. 

Poet  Betty  standing  by  the  edge  of  the  terrace 
was  suddenly  vomiting  black  strings  in  the  bushes. 
Then  she  ate  more.  She  was  number  six. 

Gerhart  was  telling  us  that  the  males  had  no 
effect  and  served  only  a  ceremonial  function.  Every- 
one was  listening  to  his  own  stomach  expecting  to 
be  poisoned.  Quite  a  picture,  six  of  us  sitting  around 
on  the  sunlit  terrace  in  our  bathing  suits  waiting, 
waiting:  asking  each  other,  how  many  did  you  take? 
Males  or  females?  Do  you  feel  anything? 

Two  people  fasted.  Ruth  Dettering  was  eager  to 
eat  but  she  was  pregnant  and  Dick  scolded  her  with 
froggy  harumphs  until  she  agreed  to  wait.  She  had 
been  a  nurse  and  I  was  glad  t1  at  she  was  going  to 
be  out  of  trance.  I  talked  to  her  about  how  to  call 
for  an  ambulance  and  stomach  pumps. 

And  Whiskers  fasted. 

Whiskers  was  a  friend  of  a  friend  and  had  arrived 
the  night  before.  He  was  slight  in  build,  sweet  in 
demeanor— a  sensitive  logician  just  flunked  out  of 
Michigan,  clipping  his  words,  hesitant,  pedantic, 
anxious  about  sending  a  cable  to  his  mother.  To  his 
mother? 


August  1960  00    19 


He  claimed  he  suffered  from  nervous  fits  and  so 
he  passed  up  the  visions.  He  was  sitting  next  to 
Gerhart  and  was  dressed  in  bathing  trunks  over 
flowered  undershorts,  and  green  garters  and  black 
socks  and  leather  shoes  and  a  silken  robe.  He  had 
been  appointed  scientist  and  was  taking  elaborate 
notes  of  Gerhart's  reactions. 


Religion  in  primitive  society 
was  an  awesome  reality, 
"terrible"  in  the  original 
meaning  of  the  word,  per- 
vading all  life  and  culmi- 
nating in  ceremonies  that 
were  forbidden  to  the  pro- 
fane. 


Suddenly 

I  begin 

to  feel 
Strange. 

Going  under  dental  gas.  Good-bye. 
Mildly  nauseous.  Detached.  Moving  away 


away 

away 
From  the  group  in  bathing  suits. 
On  a  terrace 

under  the  bright 

Mexican  sky. 
When  I  tell  this  the  others  scoff 
Hah,  hah.  Him.  Power  of  suggestion. 
Skepticism?  Of  my  mind?  Of  me?  Of  mind?  Of  my? 
Oh,  now  no.  No  matter. 
Dettering  says  he  feels  it  too. 


Let  me  point  out  certain 
parallels  between  our  Mexi- 
can rite  and  the  mystery 
performed  at  Eleusis. 


O  muses,  O  great  genius,  aid  me  now!  O  memory 
that  wrote  down  what  I  saw,  here  shall  your  noble 
character  be  shown.  ( Inferno  II ) 

Oh  my  friend.  Do  you  feel  tingling  in  face? 

Yes. 

Dental  gas? 

Yes. 

Slight  dizziness? 

Yes.  Exactly. 

Whiskers  making  notes.  Rapid  whiz  pencil. 

Lips  obscene  gash  brown  stained  beard. 

Flowered  underpants  peeping  out 

from  bathing  trunks,  green  socks,  black  shoes, 

thin  shoulders 

Bending  over  note  pad. 

Viennese  analyst. 

Comic.  Laugh.  Laugh.  Laugh.  Laugh.  Can't  stop. 


At  the  heart  of  the  mystery 
of  Eleusis  lay  a  secret.  In 
the  surviving  texts  there 
are  numerous  references  to 
the  secret,  but  in  none  is  it 
revealed. 


From  the  writings  of  the 
Greeks,  from  a  fresco  in 
Pompeii,  we  know  that  the 
initiate  drank  a  potion. 


20  00    God  Reveals  Himself 


Then,  in  the  depths  of  the 
night,  he  beheld  a  great 
vision,  and  the  next  day  he 
was  still  so  awestruck  that 
he  felt  he  would  never  be 
the  same  man  as  before. 


Laugh.  Laugh. 

All  look  at  me. 

Astonishment 

More  laugh  laugh  laugh  laugh 

Whiskers     looks     up,     red     tongue     flicks     from 

shrubbery. 

Lick  lips. 

Stomach  laugh.  So  funny  that  I.  .  .  . 

Laughing  pointing.  .  .  . 

The  rabbi!  Psychoanalytic  rabbinical  rabbit! 

Convulsed  in  laughahafter. 


What  the  initiate  experi- 
enced was  "new,  astonish- 
ing, inaccessible  to  rational 
cognition." 


It  also  seems  significant 
that  the  Greeks  were  wont 
to  refer  to  mushrooms  as 
"the  food  of  the  gods," 
oroma  theon,  and  that  Por- 
phyrius  is  quoted  as  having 
called  them  "nurslings  of 
the  gods,"  Theotrophos. 


When,  at  the  beginning  of  summer,  thunder- 
electrical  energy— comes  rushing  forth  from  the 
earth  again,  and  the  first  thunderstorm  refreshes 
nature,  a  prolonged  state  of  tension  is  resolved.  Joy 
and  relief  make  themselves  felt  ( I  Ching  XVI ) 

pomposity  of  scholars 

impudence  of  the  mind 

smug  naivete  of  words 
If  Whiskers  could  only  see! 
Stagger  in  hahahouse.  Roaring.  Into  bedroom. 
Fahahalling  on  bed 
Doubled  in  laughahafter. 

Detterings  follow,  watch  curiously,  maybe  scared. 
Funnier. 
Then 

Dettering  begins  to  lafhahahaf . 
Yes,  he  laughs  too. 

You     see,     Dickohoho?     The     impudent     mind? 
Comedy?  Yes. 
Only  Ruth  standing  there  grinning  quizzically. 

The  king  is  told  not  to  be  anxious,  but  to  study  how 
he  may  always  be  like  the  sun  in  his  meridian 
height,  cheering  and  enlightening  all. 

Starting  back  to  terrace 

My  walk  has  changed 

Rubber  legs 

Room  is  full  of  water 

Under  water 

Floating 

Floating  in  air-sea 


August  1960  00    21 


Room 
Terrace 
People 
All 

They  were  not  for  mortal 
man  to  eat,  at  least  not 
every  day.  We  might  be 
dealing  with  what  was  in 
origin  a  religious  tabu.  .  .  . 

Under 

Water 

BUT  NO  WORDS  CAN  DESCRIBE 

Out  on  terrace 

Trance  has  hit  the  others. 

Gerhart 

Sprawling  on  chair,  staring  up  at  umbrella 
Eyes  popping,  big  as  melons 

Gone 
Gone 
Gone 
Babbling. 

I  do  not  suggest  that  St. 
John  of  Patmos  ate  mush- 
rooms in  order  to  write  the 
book  of  Revelation. 

No,  see  Whisker  pencil  flying 

Hear  Gerhart  voice 

an  orange  spot,  I  should  say  twenty 
centimeters  in  diameter,  now  changing 
to  purple,  now  being  approached  at  an 
angle  of  forty-five  degrees  by  an 
alternating   band   of  yellow   and  red.  .  .  . 

Scientists  at  work 

Funny,  funny  too. 

Long,  lanky  Gerhart  in  straw  sombrero 

Gleaming,  staring  eyes  fixed  in  space 

Tufted  goatee  bobbing  up  and  down  as  he  tapes 

out  visions. 


Yet  the  succession  of  im- 
ages in  his  vision,  so  clearly 
seen  but  such  a  phantasma- 
goria, means  for  me  that  he 
was  in  the  same  state  as 
one  bemushroomed. 


Dettering  swims  up. 

Point  to  Gerhart 

Welafhafhafhaf 

Swim  to  poet-Betty 

On  the  beach  by  flowers. 

Face  turns  up 

Gone,  gone,  gone. 

I  took  nine. 

Nine,  she  sighs. 

Betty  makes  hissing  noise. 

Eyes  tender.  All  woman  inviting. 

Ruth  Dettering  standing  by  the  door. 


The  advantage  of  the  mush- 
room is  that  it  puts  many 
(if  not  everyone)  within 
reach  of  this  state  without 
having  to  suffer  the  morti- 
fications of  Blake  and  St. 
John. 


22  00    God  Reveals  Himself 


It  permits  you  to  see,  more 
clearly  than  our  perishing 
mortal  eye  can  see,  vistas 
beyond  the  horizons  of  this 
life,  to  travel  backwards 
and  forwards  in  time.  To 
enter  other  planes  of  exis- 
tence, even  (as  the  Indians 
say)  to  know  God. 


All  that  you  see  during  this 
night  has  a  pristine  quality: 
the  landscape,  the  edifices, 
the  carvings,  the  animals — 
they  look  as  though  they 
had  come  straight  from  the 
Maker's  workshop. 


This  newness  of  everything 
— it  is  as  if  the  world  had 
just  dawned — overwhelms 
you  and  melts  you  with  its 
beauty. 


Swim  to  her  through  water,  suddenly 

Ominous. 

Have  you  ever  swum 

On  moonless  night 

In  southern  sea 

Where  sharks  may  be? 

And  felt  that  dread 

Of  unknown 

Black  peril? 

Swimming  in  ocean  of  energy 

With  no  mind  to  guide. 

Look,  Ruth.  I  can  tell  you  that  this 

thing  is  going  to  hit  me  real  hard. 

Harder  than  anything  that  has  ever 

happened  to  me.  And  to  the  others  too. 

Ruth  listens  hard,  nodding  her  good 

nurse  head.  You  may  have  six  psychotic  nuts 

on  your  hands.   I   think  you   should   send 

the  kids  downtown  to  the  movies,  and 

the  maid  too,  get  her  out  of  here,  and  lock 

the  gates  and  for  god's  sake  stay  close 

and  keep  your  eyes  on  things. 

How  do  you  feel  having  all  this 

Going  on  around  you? 

Ruth  grins. 

So  envious  I  could 

Scream. 

Sitting  on  chair 

Feeling  cold  doom 

Sky  dark,  air  still 

Soundless  like 

Ocean 

Bottom 

World  stops  spinning 

Somewhere 

The  big  celestial  motor 

Which  keeps  universe  moving 

Is  turned  off  and  the  whole  business 

Terrace,  house,  lawn,  city,  world 

coasting 

coasting 

dropping 

through  space 

without 

sound 


August  1960  00    23 


Mandy  floats  from  beach  chair 

Swims  by,  I  watch  her  go 

Inside  door  loosens  hair 

Falls  down  over  shoulders 

Looks  out  in  bikini  wet  tresses  trailing 

Mermaid  eyes  see  far  away. 


All  these  things  you  see 
with  an  immediacy  of  vision 
that  leads  you  to  say  to 
yourself,  "Now  I  am  seeing 
for  the  first  time,  seeing  di- 
rect, without  the  interven- 
tion of  mortal  eyes." 


Old  Dettering  floats  over 

sea-toad  face 

bloated 

purple  green  warts 

froggy 

We  stand  looking  down  over 

allgreen  grass  blade  leaf  petal  in 

focus  sharp  clear  shining 

changing  waves  color 

like 

floodlight  slides 

at  summer  dance  hall 

kaleidoscope 

Behold!  You  are  come  to  Cerin  Amroth,  said  Haldir. 
For  this  is  the  heart  of  the  ancient  realm  as  it  was 
long  ago,  and  here  is  the  mound  of  Amroth,  where 
in  happier  days  his  high  house  was  built.  Here  ever 
bloom  the  winter  flowers  in  the  unfading  grass. 
( The  Lord  of  the  Rings ) 

mandy  and  i  He  side  by  side  on  beach  chair 

her  knee  hits  mine  they  merge 

no  difference  between  skins 

last  abstraction  of  self  and  self's  body  gone 

hairs   on   leg    (my   leg?)    tripled  move   in   sharp 

perspective 

like  little  fleas  in  Tivoli  sideshow  in  Copenhagen 

no  word  spoken 

five  us  sit  on  terrace 

still  staring  space 

catatonic  silent  withdrawn 

sitting  in  heavenly  asylum 

Ruth  I  talk 

She  psychiatric  nurse 

I  good  patient. 

She  talks  earnestly  about  .  .  .  reality. 

You  must  try  LSD 
and  mescaline  and 


It  is  clear  to  me  where 
Plato  found  his  ideas.  It  was 
clear  to  his  contemporaries 
too.  Plato  had  drunk  of  the 
potion  in  the  Temple  of 
Eleusis  and  had  spent  the 
night  seeing  the  great  vi- 
sion. 


And  all  the  time  you  are 
seeing  these  things,  the 
priestess  sings,  not  loud 
but  with  authority. 


24  00    God  Reveals  Himself 


Your  body  lies  in  the  dark- 
ness, heavy  as  lead,  but 
your  spirit  seems  to  soar 
and  leave  the  hut, 


see  if  they  are 
different  from 
mushrooms 


Listen  tolerantly. 

Pity  her. 

Poor  creature. 

Think  such  affairs  important. 

Mind  games.  Head  trips. 


and  with  the  speed  of 
thought  to  travel  where  it 
wishes  in  time  and  space, 
accompanied  by  the  sha- 
man's singing  and  by  the 
ejaculations  of  her  per- 
cussive chant. 


Whiskers  walks  in  kitchen  completely  dressed,  he 
is  going  to  town  to  send  another  wire  to  mother.  He 
is  so  serious  about  the  comic  game  in  which  he  is 
trapped.  Whiskers  seems  so  can't  bear  funny. 

On  patio 

Scientist  Gerhart  giggly,  sitting  peacefully, 

Lost  contemplation. 

Joan  by  side 

But 

She  is  fighting  spell 

Fluttering, 

Talking 

Refusing  to  relax. 


What  you  are  seeing  and 
what  you  are  hearing  ap- 
pears as  one: 


Of  great  importance,  furthermore,  is  the  law  of 
movement  along  the  line  of  least  resistance,  which 
in  this  hexagram  is  enunciated  as  the  law  for  natural 
events  and  for  human  life. 

Holds  bowl  of  mushrooms  in  hand 

Hostess  pushing  cookies  at  church  tea. 

Have  another,  one  more  makes  all  the  difference. 

I  eat  a  second. 

Have  another,  one  more  makes  all  the  difference. 

I  eat  third. 


The  music  assumes  har- 
monious shapes,  giving 
visual  form  to  its  har- 
monies, and  what  you  are 
seeing  takes  on  the  modali- 
ties of  music — the  music 
of  the  spheres. 


Swim  along  veranda  to  bedroom 

Shades  drawn.  Dark. 

Betty  feels  isolated.  All  woman  un-tilled  earth.  I  am 

sorry  tender. 

Her  black  hair 

drawn  back  big  pony  tail. 

Cherokee  princess  great  beauty. 

Humming  bird  words  swoop  from  mouth. 

How  do  you  feel? 


August  1960  00    25 


I  sit  trying  answer.  Can't  talk. 

Can  only  look  jeweled  patterns, 

swirling  tapestry  work  in  closed  eyes. 

What  is  she  asking  me?  Oh  yes,  how  do  I  feel. 

Far  far  gone. 

She  sits  silently  behind  bead-work  face.  Do  you 

have  anything  on  your  mind?  Do  you  want  to  talk? 

She  wants  close.  Intimacy.  But, 

I  drift  off  to  cavern  of  sea  light. 


All   your  senses   are   simi- 
larly affected: 


The  cigarette  with  which 
you  occasionally  break  the 
tension  of  the  night  smells 
as  no  cigarette  before  had 
ever  smelled:  The  glass  of 
water  is  infinitely  better 
than  champagne. 


Gerhart  and  Joan  come  in. 
Fall  on  another  bed. 


In  Mandy's  arms 

Her  body  warm  foam  rubber 

Marshmallow  flesh 

My  body  gone 

Fallen  into  her 

Two  leafy  water  plants 

Twined  together,  undulating  warm  bermuda  sea 

deep 

Entangled  so  that  no  one 

Not  even  plants  themselves  can  tell 

Which  leaf 

Which  stem 

Belongs  to  which. 


The  bemushroomed  person 
is  poised  in  space,  a  dis- 
embodied eye,  invisible,  in- 
corporeal, seeing  but  not 
seen. 


Gone  again,  gone  into 

Palace  by  Nile 

Temple  near  Hong  Kong 

Babylonian  boudoir,  Bedouin  pleasure  tent 

Gem-flash  jewel 

Woven  color  silk  gown  movement 

Mosaics  flaming  color  Muzo  emerald  Burma  rubies 

Ceylon  sapphire 

Mosaics    lighted    from    within    glowing,    moving, 

changing. 

Hundred  reptiles,  Jewel  encrusted.  Hammered 

Moorish  patterned 

Snakeskin. 

Snake  mosaic,  reptiles  piled  in 

Giant,  mile-square  chest 

Slide,  slither,  tumble  down  central 

drain 

One 


In  truth,  he  is  the  five 
senses  disembodied,  all  of 
them  keyed  to  the  height  of 
sensitivity  and  awareness, 
all  of  them  blending  into 
one  another  most  strangely, 
until  the  person,  utterly 
passive,  becomes  a  pure 
receptor,  infinitely  delicate, 
of  sensations. 


26  00    God  Reveals  Himself 


As  your  body  lies  there  in 
its  sleeping  bag,  your  soul 
is  free,  loses  all  sense  of 
time,  alert  as  it  never  was 
before,  living  an  eternity  in 
a  night,  seeing  infinity  in 
a  grain  of  sand. 


By 

One 

One 

By 

One 
Such  happy  beauty 
I  lift  up  head  to  laugh 
From  around  come  answering  chuckles. 
Who?  There  are  others  here? 
Eye  open 

Gerhart  and  Joan  on  next  bed  laughing 
Next  to  me  mermaid,  laughing. 
Put  hand  on  hip  where 
Skin  pokes  through  bikini  lacings 
Hand  up  soft  back  until  fingers 
Sink  in  quicksand  of  flesh  through  skin  through  ribs 
Closed  eyes 
Moving  belts  like 
Inlaid  Moorish  patterns 


What  you  have  seen  and 
heard  is  cut  as  with  a  burin 
into  your  memory,  never  to 
be  effaced. 


At  last  you  know  what  the 
ineffable  is  and  what  ec- 
stasy means. 


Plummeting  back  through  time, 

snake  time, 
fish  time 
Down  through  giant  jungle  palm  time, 
greeny  lacy  ferny  leaf  time. 
Watching  first  life  oozing, 
writhing, 
twisting  up. 
Watching  first  sea  thing  crawl  to  shore 
Lie  with  her.  Sand-rasp  under  cheek 
Then  float  sea-thing,  down 
Deep  green  sea  dark 
I  am  first  living 
Thing  I 
Am 


Laughter  in  dark  room  it  is  interesting  to  con- 
template a  tangled  bank  clothed  with  many 
plants  of  many  kinds  Gerhart  sitting  up  in  dark 
shouting  WITH  BDRDS  singing  on  the  bushes  with 
various  insects  flitting  about  Oh  God  don't  let 


28  00    God  Reveals  Himself 


The  mind  harks  back  to  the 
origin  of  that  word.  For 
the  Greeks  ekstasis  meant 
the  flight  of  the  soul  from 
the  body.  I  can  find  no 
better  word  to  describe  the 
bemush roomed  state. 


In  common  parlance,  among 
the  many  who  have  not  ex- 
perienced ecstasy,  ecstasy 
is  fun,  and  I  am  frequently 
asked  why  I  do  not  reach 
for  mushrooms  every  night. 


But  ecstasy  is  not  fun.  Your 
very  soul  is  seized  and 
shaken  until  it  tingles. 


this  end  and  with  worms  crawling  through  the 
damp  earth  Gerhart  goatee  bobbing  and  to  re- 
flect THAT  THESE  ELABORATELY  CONSTRUCTED  FORMS 

so  different  from  each  other  Gerhart  gone  in 
ecstasy  and  dependent  on  each  other  in  so  com- 
plex a  manner  I  know  his  ecstasy  have  all  been 
produced  by  laws  acting  around  us  We  are  high. 
High  Priests 

these  laws  taken  in  ancient  evolution  trail  thus 
from  the  war  of  nature,  from  famine  and  death 
down  to  fishy  bottom  Float  with  plankton  the 
most  exalted  object  which  we  are  capable  of 
conceiving  namely  down  the  littoral  Tumbling 
past  coral  reef  the  production  of  the  higher 
animals  directly  follows  and  barnacled  sea 
cliff  Fathoms  down  through  tangled  jungle  there 
is  grandeur  in  this  view  of  life  Once  we  were 
all  double-celled  creatures  Remember  that  whdle 
this  planet  has  gone  on  cycling  on  according 
to  the  fixed  laws  of  gravity  Once  we  all  drifted 
down  soft  red-walled  caverns  from  so  simple  a 

BEGINNING  ENDLESS  FORMS  MOST  BEAUTIFUL  AND  MOST 

wonderful  Our  neurons  remember  have  been 
and  are  being  evolved  Do  you  remember 

Then  begins  Blake's  long  red  voyage  every  time 

LESS   THAN  A   PULSATION   OF   THE   ARTERY   down   the 

blood  stream  is  equal  in  its  period  and  value  to 
six  thousand  years  floating,  bouncing  along  lab- 
yrinthian  tunnels  for  in  this  moment  the  poet's 
work  is  done  artery,  arteriole  and  all  the  great 
events  of  time  start  forth  through  every  capillary 

AND  ARE  CONCEIVED  IN  SUCH  A  PERIOD  through  pink 

honey-comb  tissue  world  within  a  moment:  a  pul- 
sation of  artery  along  soft  watermelon  channels 

EVERY  SPACE  LARGER  THAN  A  RED  GLOBULE  OF  MAN'S 

blood   part   clotted   scarlet   swamps   coagulate   is 

VISIONARY,  AND  IS  CREATED  BY  THE  HAMMER  OF  LOS 

tumbling  thru  caverned  heart  hall,  ventricular  and 

EVERY  SPACE  SMALLER  THAN  A  GLOBULE  sliding  down 

the  smooth  aortic  shute  of  man's  blood  opens  slow 
bumping  into  narrow  tunneled  plexus  into  eter- 
nity,  OF  WHICH  THE  VEGETABLE  EARTH  feel  heart's 

muscle  motor  prodding  us 


August  1960  00    29 


Chuckles  from  across  room 

All  fall  in  soft  laugh 

Some  scene 

Four  sprawl  in  darkened  room 

Opium  den  of  purest  dreams 

Oh  you  worldling  looking  in  think 
you  evil  no  you  wrong  evil  in  your 
mental  coin  your  evil  makes  me 
compassion  laugh 
here  is  no  evil 
but 

Diamond  virtue 

Pure  blue  pureness 

Beyond  desire 

Only 

Needle  moment 

Buddha  unity 


After  all,  who  will  choose 
to  feel  undiluted  awe,  or  to 
float  through  that  door  yon- 
der into  the  divine  pres- 
ence? 


The  unknowing  abuse  the 
word,  but  we  must  recap- 
ture its  full  and  terrifying 
sense. 


This  uniting  of  the  human  past  with  the  Divinity  in 
solemn  moments  of  religious  inspiration  established 
the  bond  between  God  and  man.  The  ruler  who 
revered  the  Divinity  in  revering  his  ancestors  be- 
came thereby  the  Son  of  Heaven,  in  whom  the 
heavenly  and  the  earthly  world  met  in  mystical 
contact.  (IChingXVI) 


That's 

why  we  laugh  do  you  understand 

thinking  about  that  paradox 

of  mental  evil  and 

the  mind-less  clean  diamond  that's 

why  we  laugh 
Words  and  thinking 
Are  not  as  important  as  we 
Said  and  thought 

And  so  we  four  drugged  ontologists 
Lift  up  heads  and  laugh 

Mandy  stone   carved   Semitic  mask  above  water 
don't  sleep  don't  sleep 
Miss  the  beauty  if  you  sleep 
No  one  sleeps 

Head  fall  back  on  bed.  Floating,  tumble  weed,  wind 
driven,  certain  seeds,  falling  on  water  recome 


As  man  emerged  from  his 
brutish  past,  thousands  of 
years  ago,  there  was  a 
stage  in  the  evolution  of 
his  awareness  when  the 
discovery  of  a  mushroom 
(or  perhaps  a  higher  plant) 
with  miraculous  properties 
was  a  revelation  to  him, 


a  veritable  detonator  to  his 
soul,  arousing  in  him  senti- 
ments of  awe  and  rever- 
ence, and  gentleness  and 
love,  to  the  highest  pitch 
of  which  mankind  is  ca- 
pable, all  those  sentiments 
and  virtues  that  mankind 
has  ever  since  regarded  as 
the  highest  attributes  of  his 
kind. 


30  00    God  Reveals  Himself 


It  made  him  see  what  the 
perishing  mortal  eye  cannot 
see.  The  Greeks  were  right 
to  hedge  about  this  mys- 
tery, this  imbibing  of  the 
potion,  with  secrecy  and 
surveillance. 


What  today  is  resolved  into 
the  effects  of  a  mere  drug, 
a  tryptamine  or  lysergic 
acid  derivative,  was  for 
them  a  prodigious  miracle, 
inspiring  in  them  poetry  and 
philosophy  and  religion. 


duckweed.   Dropping  again   down   shaft  of  time. 

WHEN  THEY  REACH  THE  JUNCTION  OF  THE  LAND  AND 

the  water  they  recome  lichen.  See  tiger  jungle 
cats,  sinewy.  Good-bye.  reaching  rich  soil,  they 

RECOME  WU-TSU,  THE  ROOT  OF  WHICH  HECOMES 
GRUHS,  WHILE  THE  LEAVES  COME  FROM  HUTTERFLIES, 

or  hsu.  See  reptiles  jewelry.  Good-bye.  so  god  cre- 
ated THE  GREAT  SEA  MONSTERS  AND  EVERY  LIVING 
CREATURE    THAT    MOVES,    WITH    WHICH    THE    WATERS 

swarm.  Now  I  see  the  straggly  shore  creatures. 
Good-bye,  dear  friends,  the  yang  chi  grafted  to 

AN  OLD  RAMROO  WHICH  HAS  FOR  A  LONG  TIME  PUT 
FORTH  NO  SHOOTS,   PRODUCES  THE  CH'iNG-NING.   I   am 

drifting  down  past  flowering  sea  life.   Good-bye. 

AND  GOD  MADE  THE  REASTS  OF  THE  EARTH  ACCORDING 
TO   THEIR   KINDS   AND  THE   CATTLE   ACCORDING   TO  ITS 

kind.  Drifting  down  through  the  history  of  my  body 
which  is  all  body  down  to  the  red,  wet,  warm  begin- 
nings.   AND    GOD    SAW    EVERYTHING    HE    MADE,    AND 

rehold  it  was  very  good.  I  am  down  to  the  center. 

To  the  single  point  of  origin.  Hello. 

lay  pulsing  softly  center 

of  all  life  and  time 

I  the  giant  eye  .  .  . 

Giant  eye  I 

Giant  eye 

Eye 

I 


Perhaps  with  all  our  mod- 
ern knowledge  we  do  not 
need  the  divine  mushrooms 
any  more.  Perhaps  we  need 
them  more  than  ever. 


Some  are  shocked  that  the 
key  to  religion  might  be  re- 
duced to  a  drug. 


Lying  ecstatic  eyes  closed  on  a  Triassic-Jurassic 
sedentary  rock  formation,  one  hand  on  Mandy's 
vertebrae  hearing  interstellar  voices  from  the  Mex- 
ican patio,  light  years  away.  Voice  calls.  Where  are 
you?  Here!  I  am  lying  unicelled  looking  up  up  up 
through  the  spiral  unfolding  of  two  billion  years, 
seeing  it  all  ahead  of  me,  ovum,  segmentation, 
differentiation  of  organs,  plant,  fish,  mammal, 
monkey,  baby,  grammar  school,  college,  Harvard, 
Mexico,  Cuernavaca.  They  want  me  way  up  there. 
Is  it  worth  the  whole  journey?  To  start  the  two- 
billion-year  cycle  once  again?  No.  Why  bother? 
Let's  move  over  to  the  Precambrian  sludge,  no  too 
wet,  abysses,  overlying  waters,  narrow  littoral  rocks, 
let's  try  that  Cenozoic  snaky  jungle.  Ah,  yes. 


32  00    God  Reveals  Himself 


On  the  other  hand,  the  drug 
is  as  mysterious  as  it  ever 
was:  Like  the  wind  it  com- 
eth  we  know  not  whence 
nor  why. 


IT  IS  NOW  EIGHT  O  CLOCK  STOP  MUSHROOM  EAT- 
ING BEGUN  AT  FIVE  O'CLOCK  STOP  EFFECT  STARTING 
TO  WEAR  OFF  STOP  WANT  TO  STAY  HERE  BUT  CANT 
STOP  RETURNING  SOON  STOP  HAVING  MOMENTS  OF  NON- 
TRANCE  CONSCIOUSNESS  STOP  STOP  STOP  BUT  THEN 
ENRAPTURING  VISIONS  RETURN  AND  CLUTCH  OF  MIND 
LOOSENS  STOP  IMPACT  OF  NOW-WORLD  HITS  RETINA 
AND  DON'T  STOP 


If  our  classical  scholars 
were  given  the  opportunity 
to  attend  the  rite  at  Eleusis, 
to  talk  with  the  priestess, 
they  would  exchange  any- 
thing  for   that   chance. 


Mandy  and  I  peer  out  of  cage  at  earthlings 

Acapulco  friends  who  have  just  arrived 

Humor  of  situation  pushes  over  brink  to  laughter 

Friends  listen  Dicko  orate 

Shoots  nervous  glances  in  our  direction 

Wildly  funny 

then  i  realize  responsibility 

and  role  as  host 

and  walk  out  to  porch  and  have 

friendly  conversation  with  new  arrivals 

explaining  what  is 

happening  and  telling  them  to  go  to 

kitchen  for  drink  and  we  will  be 

eating  supper  in  hour  or  so  they  are 

relieved  and  we  conclude  our 

perfectly  normal  conversation 


They  would  approach  the 
precincts,  enter  the  hal- 
lowed chamber  with  the 
reverence  born  of  the  texts 
venerated  by  scholars  for 
millennia. 


And  that  would  be  their 
frame  of  mind  if  they  were 
invited  to  partake  of  the  po- 
tion? 


Quiet  waters  roll  and  Dettering 

Old  rumpled  crocodile  paddles  up 

Dettering  reports  that  the  rest  of  the 

crowd  had  landed  back  on  shore  and 

were  gathered  around  the  kitchen 

table 

Whiskers  had  returned  and  Gerhart 

was  dictating  notes  to  him. 

I  INTEND  REMAINING  OUT  HERE  LONG  AS  POSSD3LE  STOP 
HAVING  WONDERFUL  TIME  STOP  WISH  EVERYONE  WERE 
HERE 

on  livingroom  couch 

head  in  flesh  pool  of  Mandy  lap 

Plastic  forms  spinning  in  eyelid 

Ruth  standing  above  us 
<]Que  tal? 


August  1960  00 


Join  us  in  the  kitchen,  everyone  talking 

No,  Ruth. 

Good-bye  Ruth. 

^Adonde  vas? 

To  slinky  sea  bottom. 

Ruth  leans  down  and  shakes  my  shoulder. 

Take  me  with  you.  Tell  me  what  you  see 

No.  No.  Dear  nurse  Ruth. 

I  can't. 

Ask  marlin  to  take  you  with  him  on  slippery, 

divy, 

skimming  jumping  run  for  joy  across  and 
under  the  sun-specked  ocean 
Ask  your  blood  to  sing  the  song  of  voyage 

down  to  wine-red  cavern  of  your 
heart. 
Can  they  speak  your  language?  No? 
Neither  me.  My  voice  trails  off  as  I  head 

down 

again 
Head  falls  through 
Butter  belly  and 
Melon  womb  to 
Sofa  cushions 

Mandy  is  getting  up  to  check 

on  guests 
At  the  far  end  of  the  pool  Mandy  and  I  sit 
on  beach  chairs.  She  climbs  on  lap.  We  throw 
heads  back  and  watch  gray  clouds  skudding  along 
black  sky. 
Magic  mushrooms 
Sculpting  clouds 
Into  Roman  emperors 

Greek  gods 

Football  scrimmages 

Cavalry  charges 
We  sit  for  full  half -hour 
No  words 

Soft  laughter  at  secret  we  share 
Then 

The  gray  masses  change  back  to  clouds  for 
longer  and  longer  and  longer  periods  and  all 
at  once  my  legs  feel  cramped  and  the  chill  of 
night  air  and 
the  trance  is  over. 


Well,  those  rites  take  place 
now,  unbeknownst  to  the 
classical  scholars,  in  scat- 
tered dwellings,  humble, 
thatched,  without  windows, 
far  from  the  beaten  track. 


If  it  is  the  rainy  season,  per- 
haps the  mystery  is  accom- 
plished by  torrential  rains 
and  punctuated  by  terrifying 
thunderbolts. 


Then,  indeed,  as  you  lie 
there  bemush roomed,  lis- 
tening to  the  music  and 
seeing  visions,  you  know  a 
soul-shattering    experience, 


recalling  as  you  do  the  be- 
lief of  some  primitive  peo- 
ples that  mushrooms,  the 
sacred  mushrooms,  are  di- 
vinely engendered  by  Jupi- 
ter Fulminans, 


34  00    God  Reveals  Himself 


The  time  was  9:07  and  the  journey  into  the  other 
half  of  the  cerebral  cortex  had  lasted  four  hours 
and  seven  minutes  from  the  time  of  eating. 

And  that  was  the  trip. 

It  was  the  classic  visionary  voyage  and  I  came 
back  a  changed  man.  You  are  never  the  same  after 
you've  had  that  one  flash  glimpse  down  the  cellular 
time  tunnel.  You  are  never  the  same  after  you've 
had  the  veil  drawn. 

In  the  seven  years  since  eating  seven  mushrooms 
in  a  garden  in  Mexico  I  have  devoted  all  of  my 
time  and  energy  to  the  exploration  and  description 
of  these  strange  deep  realms. 


the  god  of  the  lightning- 
bolt,  in  the  soft  mother 
earth. 

00 


ENTHUSIASM. 

It  furthers  one  to  install  helpers 
And  to  set  armies  marching. 

(IChing) 


CO 


H 


The  Revelation  Is  Awe-Full: 

O 
H 

r 

Q 

o 

September  1960  !3d 

Guide:  jack  leary  O 

Oracle:   IX 
The  taming  power  of  the  small 


The  Gentle,  Wind 


The  Creative,  Heaven 


The  wind  drives  across  heaven: 

The  image  of  the  taming  power  of  the 

SMALL. 

Thus  the  superior  man 

Refines  the  outward  aspect  of  his  nature. 

(IChing) 


TRIP  3 


From  Playboy  magazine: 

On  a  sunny  Saturday  after- 
noon in  1960,  beside  the 
swimming  pool  of  his  rented 
summer  villa  in  Cuernavaca, 
a  39-year-old  American  ate 
a  handful  of  odd-looking 
mushrooms  he'd  bought 
from  the  witch  doctor  of  a 
nearby  village. 


Within  minutes,  he  recalled 
later,  he  felt  himself  "be- 
ing swept  over  the  edge  of 
a  sensory  Niagara  into  a 
maelstrom  of  transcen- 
dental visions  and  halluci- 
nations." 


The  fungi  were  legendary 
"sacred  mushrooms"  that 
have  since  become  known 
and  feared  by  many,  as  one 
of  the  psychedelic  (literally, 
mind-manifesting)  chemi- 
cals that  have  created  a  na- 
tional fad  among  the  na- 
tion's young  and  a  scandal 
in  the  press. 


The  American  was  a  Har- 
vard psychotherapist  named 
Timothy  Leary,  who  has 
since  found  himself  trans- 
mogrified from  scientist  and 
researcher  into  progenitor 
and  high  priest  of  a  revo- 
lutionary movement. 


At  dinner  the  night  after  the  visions,  the  maid  asked 
if  she  could  take  the  mushrooms  over  to  the  ser- 
vants' cottage  to  show  her  husband.  Ah,  Lola,  you 
want  him  to  find  you  some?  Lola's  eyes  narrowed 
and  she  made  a  gesture  of  disgust.  No,  Senor. 
Mdlos.  Muy  malos.  Ruth  leaned  forward,  rapid 
Spanish.  Why  do  you  want  your  husband  to  see 
them,  Lola?  The  maid  took  a  step  backward, 
crouching.  So  he  will  see  them,  Senora,  and  know 
them,  and  never  eat  them.  The  plate  with  black 
twisted  mushrooms  was  on  the  mantel.  When  I 
picked  it  up  several  flies  spiraled  away.  Lola  held 
the  plate  at  arm's  length  and  scuttled  from  the  room. 

Lola's  face  had  a  look  of  bitter  dread.  I  didn't 
know  then  that  we  were  to  meet  this  same  fear  of 
the  visionary  unknown  at  every  step  along  the  road 
to  come. 

Ruth  was  looking  out  the  window  and  she  turned 
with  a  puzzled  smile  on  her  face.  Strange  sight,  she 
said.  Lola's  half-running  across  the  lawn  with  the 
plate  of  mushrooms  in  one  hand  and  crossing  her- 
self with  the  other. 

There  was  fear  in  the  air  the  next  day  in  Mexico 
City.  I  sensed  it  on  the  Paseo  de  la  Reforma,  the 
broad,  grand  pride  of  Mexico.  Twelve  cars  wide, 
split  by  grass  strips  and  tree  lanes,  lined  with 
statues,  sweeping  into  round  wide  glorietas,  hum- 
ming like  a  power-line  with  speeding  cars.  As  I 
drove  along  near  Sanborns,  the  traffic  slowed.  The 
American  embassy  building  was  ringed  with  hun- 
dreds of  police  troopers,  black  boots,  black  leather 
belts.  They  looked  half -fierce  and  half -embarrassed. 
I  remembered  reading  about  the  left-wing  student 
riots.  Cuba  si.  Yanqui,  no.  The  government  was 
moving  with  a  nervous  show  of  force. 

I  was  having  lunch  with  a  sociologist  named 
Lewis.  Trouble  as  usual  parking,  and  I  found  him 
36 


September  1960  00    37 


waiting  at  a  table  in  Prendes.  He  declined  a 
cigarette  and  hesitated  when  I  ordered  a  vermouth 
and  then  decided  to  join  me.  He  talked  about  his 
studies  of  village  life  in  southern  Mexico  and 
Guatemala.  He  had  lifted  the  lid  and  poked  around 
inside  and  what  he  described  wasn't  pretty.  The 
sick.  The  miserable.  The  bullies.  The  victims.  The 
hopeless.  The  grinding  pressure  of  no  money,  lousy 
food,  distrust,  waking  before  dawn  in  a  cold  hut, 
your  body  stiff  and  crusted  with  yesterday's  sweat 
and  dirt,  your  mouth  sour,  your  bowels  running, 
haunted  by  your  debts,  your  fearful  ignorance  of 
why  it  all  works  out  this  way  and  what  to  do.  Lewis 
really  told  you  how  it  was  in  concrete  terms.  Human 
helplessness.  No  happy  theories  to  explain  it  away 
either.  I  liked  him  for  that. 

We  ordered  seafood  and  I  had  a  half-bottle 
of  smoky  Mexican  white  wine.  Lewis  was  a  sensitive 
man.  He  was  disturbed  by  what  he  had  seen  and 
had  to  write  about.  He  loved  the  Mexicans  and 
hated  sociological  theory.  He  was  bitter  because  he 
had  been  attacked  by  the  political  book  reviewers, 
and  the  psychoanalytic  book  reviewers  and  the 
theorists  and  his  American  colleagues  who  saw  a 
rich,  pa'ssionate,  Freudian  warmth  in  his  villagers. 
He  had  heard  vaguely  of  the  sacred  mushrooms 
but  had  never  paid  much  attention  to  the  reports 
about  them. 

Mandy  and  I  took  the  elevator  way  up  to  the 
skytop  restaurant  of  the  Latino-American  building. 
We  sat  drinking  tequila  and  looking  through  the 
glass  wall  out  over  the  valley  of  Mexico.  The  air 
was  hazy  blue  except  where  some  white  clouds 
hung  over  the  western  volcanic  peaks.  The  whole 
historic  bit  was  right  there  in  front  of  us.  There  was 
the  dusty  flatland  around  the  airport  which  used  to 
be  a  lake  and  the  old  colonial  section  with  crum- 
bling tezontle  churches  and  palaces,  and  the  sky- 
scrapers running  out  to  the  modern  sections  and 
there  out  beyond,  the  acres  of  tenements.  We 
watched  airliners  sliding  down  sloping  trajectories 
and  I  thought  of  Dick  Alpert  flying  to  Mexico  to 
pick  me  up  in  his  Cessna,  at  this  moment,  some- 
where a  mile  high  over  Jalisco,  poring  over  his 
airmaps  and  checking  the  green  patterns  below, 


A  movement  spawned  not 
by  an  idea  but  by  a  sub- 
stance that's  been  called 
"the  spiritual  equivalent  of 
the  hydrogen  bomb." 


Few  men,  in  their  youth, 
would  have  seemed  less 
likely  to  emerge  as  a  reli- 
gious leader,  let  alone  as  a 
rebel  with  a  cause. 


At  the  age  of  19,  Leary  dis- 
tressed his  Roman  Catholic 
mother  by  abandoning  Holy 
Cross  two  years  before 
graduation  ("The  scholastic 
approach  to  religion  didn't 
turn  me  on"). 


Then  he  affronted  his 
father,  a  retired  army  ca- 
reer officer,  by  walking  out 
of  West  Point  after  18 
months  ("My  interests  were 
philosophic  rather  than  mil- 
itaristic"). 


Not  until  he  transferred  to 
the  University  of  Alabama 
did  he  begin  to  settle  down 
academically — to  work  for 
his  B.A.  in  psychology. 


On  graduation  in  1942,  he 
enlisted  as  an  army  psy- 
chologist, served  in  a  Penn- 
sylvania hospital  until  the 
end  of  the  war. 


38  00    The  Revelation  Is  Awe-Full 


He  then  resumed  his 
schooling  and  earned  his 
Ph.D.  at  the  University  of 
California  at  Berkeley. 


Acquiring  both  eminence 
and  enemies  with  his  first 
major  jobs — as  director 
of  Oakland's  progressive 
Kaiser  Foundation  hospital 
and  as  an  assistant  pro- 
fessor at  UC's  school  of 
medicine  in  San  Francisco. 


Leary  began  to  display  the 
courage  and  sometimes 
rash  iconoclasm  that  have 
since  marked  every  phase 
of  his  checkered  career. 


Contending  that  traditional 
psychiatric  methods  were 
hurting  as  many  patients  as 
they  helped,  he  resigned  in 
1958  and  signed  up  as  a 
lecturer  on  clinical  psy- 
chology at  Harvard. 


Here  he  began  to  evolve 
and  enunciate  the  theory 
of  social  interplay  and  per- 
sonal behavior  as  so  many 
stylized  games,  since  popu- 
larized by  Dr.  Eric  Berne 
in  his  best-selling  book, 
Games  People  Play. 


looking  for  the  landmarks  to  guide  him  in  to  the 
Guadalajara  airport. 

I  had  started  taking  narcotics  too  early  in  the 
day,  wine  at  lunch,  tequila  in  the  cocktail  lounge 
and  by  the  time  the  good  restaurants  were  serving 
dinner,  I  was  heavy  and  tired.  Liquor  contracts 
consciousness.  Soggy  symbols.  Mandy  was  being 
very  college-girl.  I  was  missing  the  Semitic  mermaid 
with  the  sculptured  lines  and  got  bored  and  irri- 
table. 

A  classic  liquor  high.  Around  midnight  we  ran 
into  Poet  Betty  in  the  mariachi  section.  By  this 
time,  the  taste  of  tequila  was  perfumey  obnoxious 
and  the  lime  taste  was  acrid  and  the  musicians 
were  puffy,  pouter  pigeons  buttoned  into  their  fake 
ranchero  costumes  just  as  sick  of  singing  the  same 
old  ballads  as  I  was  of  hearing  them.  When 
Guadalajara  de  Noche  closed  at  one  o'clock,  we 
had  coffee  in  the  mariachi  market  and  I  drove 
Poet  Betty  home  and  then  stood  in  the  hallway  of 
Mandy's  house  and  for  a  moment  I  felt  the  message 
of  the  mushrooms  which  is  the  wordless,  mindless 
rapture  of  the  moment.  I  started  a  miserable  debate 
with  myself  about  the  next  move.  I  wanted  to  drive 
to  Cuernavaca  but  I  knew  that  I'd  have  to  come 
back  to  meet  Dick  Alpert  at  the  airport  next  after- 
noon. 

Around  three  in  the  morning  I  was  standing  in 
front  of  the  hotel,  Virreyes,  leaning  against  a  lamp- 
post, sodden,  tired,  hung  on  the  hooks  of  indecision, 
deciding  whether  to  drive  back  or  sleep  the  rest  of 
the  night  in  the  city.  The  coin  came  down  stay.  As 
I  turned  to  walk  to  the  hotel  entrance,  my  shoe 
caught  in  a  metal  hook  sticking  from  the  bottom  of 
the  post.  I  moved  forward.  My  shoe  caught.  I  fell. 
Crouched  on  the  sidewalk,  on  my  hands  and  knees, 
I  looked  up.  A  group  of  taxi-drivers  and  Mexican 
hotel  hangers-on  were  standing  at  the  lobby  en- 
trance. Their  talk  stopped  and  they  turned  to  stare 
down  at  me.  My  eyes  moved  from  one  face  to  the 
next,  to  the  next.  Then  I  lifted  myself  up  slowly, 
slapped  the  dirt  from  my  hands  and  walked  into  the 
hotel. 

When  I  got  to  Mandy's  house  for  lunch  there  was 
a  message.  Dick  Alpert  had  phoned  from  Guadala- 


September  1960  00    39 


jara  and  would  be  landing  at  Mexico  City  airport  in 
an  hour.  I  found  him  closing  his  flight  plan  in  the 
operations  office.  Dick  is  tall,  blond,  and  boyish, 
full  of  silly  enthusiasms— and  during  his  three-day 
flight  down  the  west  coast  and  over  the  mountains 
he  had  fallen  in  love  with  Mexico.  We  piled  his 
luggage  in  the  car  and  stopped  at  a  tienda  for  beer 
and  potato  chips  and  headed  out  past  the  university 
on  to  the  toll  road  and  started  climbing  through 
the  cloudy  passes  out  of  the  valley.  Dick  stretched 
out  his  legs  in  the  front  seat  and  began  telling  me 
how  happy  the  Mexican  people  were  and  how  much 
more  sensible  their  life  was  than  the  American.  On 
his  flight  down,  there  was  always  a  cab  driver  who 
would  see  him  circling  over  the  town  and  by  the 
time  Dick  had  set  the  plane  down  on  the  cow- 
pasture  runway,  the  taxi  would  be  waiting  for  him 
and  sometimes  there  would  be  not  one  but  two  or 
three  girls  in  the  cab  for  him  to  take  his  pick. 

They're  relaxed.  They  smile.  They  love  music. 
They  know  what  the  important  values  are. 

That's  right,  Dick,  I  said.  And  when  they  get 
bored  with  their  small  town  and  their  cab  and  the 
whorehouse  where  they  work,  why  they  just  jump 
in  their  plane  and  fly  away  to  the  next  country 
that  hits  their  fancy. 

Dick  flashed  his  modest  boy  smile.  I  suppose 
I'm  talking  like  the  typical  naive  American  tourist. 
The  happy  native  bit. 

They're  stuck.  They  have  no  choice.  Is  that  right? 

I  told  him  that  I  didn't  know.  Because  I  didn't 
know.  But  I  was  sure  that  the  Mexicans  had  no 
secrets  that  Americans  lack,  because  there  weren't 
any  Mexicans  at  all  but  fifty  million  men  and 
women  with  eyes  and  ears  and  brains  and  hearts 
more  or  less  hung  up  on  their  own  mental  chess- 
boards, different  from  our  chess  pieces  maybe,  but 
hung  up  all  the  same. 

So,  I  didn't  know.  Ever  since  last  weekend  and 
the  mushrooms  I  didn't  know  as  much  any  more.  I 
had  started  the  slow  process  of  throwing  things 
out  of  mind,  junking  mental  furniture  that  had  been 
clogging  up  my  brain.  I  used  to  know  a  lot  about 
Mexico,  generalizations,  theories. 

Now  I  was  beginning  to  see  that  all  I  knew  were 


He  began  to  both  preach 
and  practice  the  effective 
but  unconventional  new 
psychiatric  research  tech- 
nique of  sending  his  stu- 
dents to  study  emotional 
problems  such  as  alcohol- 
ism where  they  germinate 
— rather  than  in  the  text- 
book or  the  laboratory. 


At  the  time,  predictably 
enough,  few  of  these  novel 
notions  went  over  very  well 
with  Leary's  hidebound  col- 
leagues. 


But  their  rumblings  of 
skepticism  rose  to  a  chorus 
of  outrage  when  Leary  re- 
turned to  Harvard  in  1960 
from  his  pioneering  voyage 
into  inner  space. 


He  began  experimenting  on 
himself,  his  associates,  and 
hundreds  of  volunteer  sub- 
jects with  measured  doses 
of  psilocybin,  the  chemical 
derivative  of  the  sacred 
mushrooms, 


vowing  "to  dedicate  the 
rest  of  my  life  as  a  psy- 
chologist to  the  systematic 
exploration  of  this  new  in- 
strument." 


He  and  his  rapidly  multiply- 
ing followers  began  to  turn 
on  with  the  other  psyche- 
delic drugs: 


morning  glory  seeds,  nut- 
meg, marijuana,  peyote, 
mescaline  and  a  colorless, 
odorless,  tasteless  but  in- 
credibly potent  laboratory 
compound  called  LSD  25. 


40  00    The  Revelation  Is  Awe-Full 


LSD  was  first  synthesized  in 
1938  by  a  Swiss  biochemist 
seeking  a  pain-killer  for 
migraine  headaches. 


A  hundred  times  stronger 
than  psilocybin,  LSD  sent 
its  hallucinated  users  on 
multihued,  multileveled  rol- 
ler coaster  rides  so  spec- 
tacular that  it  soon  became 
Leary's  primary  tool  for  re- 
search. 


And  as  word  began  to  cir- 
culate about  the  fantastic, 
phantasmagorical  "trips" 
taken  by  his  students,  it 
soon  became  a  clandestine 
campus  kick. 


By  1962  it  had  become  an 
underground  cult  among 
the  young  avant-garde  from 
Los  Angeles. 


faded  memories  of  a  few  hundred  conversations 
with  Mexicans  about  Mexico  and  faded  memories 
of  a  few  books  written  by  American  minds  in 
American  words.  An  American  head-trip  imposed 
on  a  different  way  of  life.  I  knew  nothing,  really 
my  words,  lies 

just  memories  of  myself 

strung  along  the 

wires  of  my  mind 
Dick  spinning  theories  about  Mexicans 
Started  the  chuckling 
Mild  replica  of  the 
Mushroom 
Laughter 

We  had  just  passed  the  summit  at  Tres  Marias 
and  were  heading  down  the  long  descent  to 
Morelos.  I  began  to  tell  Dick  about  the  mushrooms. 
He  listened  to  my  story  and  then  he  surprised  me 
with  his  response. 

Sounds  very  much  like  marijuana.  You've  never 
tried  it?  Same  reaction.  Feelings  of  detachment. 
Intensification  of  color  and  sound.  Euphoria.  Sense 
of  having  discovered  some  great  wisdom.  Every- 
one's been  smoking  pot  for  years  around  San  Fran- 
cisco and  Greenwich  Village.  There  are  regular 
cults  of  tea-heads.  A  friend  of  mine  gave  me  two 
pounds  of  pot  when  he  left  for  Europe.  I  smoked  it 
for  awhile  but  got  bored  with  it  and  finally  it  dried 
up  and  I  threw  most  of  it  away. 

This  was  some  development!  Was  that  all  I  had 
experienced?  Were  the  mystic  visions  and  the  orien- 
tal dreams  just  a  stronger  version  of  a  Greenwich 
Village  pot  high?  I  had  been  sure  we  were  on  the 
verge  of  something  new  and  great.  A  pushing  back 
of  the  frontiers  of  consciousness.  But  now  it  looked 
as  though  I  was  just  a  naive,  sheltered  intellectual 
discovering  what  hip  teen-agers  on  the  North  Beach 
had  been  experiencing  for  years. 

The  late  afternoon  thunderstorm  was  going  full 
blast  as  we  rolled  down  the  last  long  straight  grade 
into  Cuernavaca.  Dick  decided  to  spend  the  first 
night  in  Tepoztlan  with  the  McClellands,  who  were 
renting  a  house  for  the  summer.  The  Tepoztlan 
road  at  sundown.  Herdsmen  nudging  along  their 
cattle.  Indians  trudging  home  from  the  milpas  with 


September  1960  00    41 


machetes  and  rakes  over  their  shoulders.  The  rain 
makes  for  a  greater  scene.  The  headlights  on  the 
white  ponchos  slumped  over  plodding  burros.  The 
valley  of  Tepoztlan  is  haunted.  It's  the  nave  of  a 
prehistoric  cathedral  with  the  roof  blown  off  and 
the  huge  pillared  cliff  walls  still  standing,  and  the 
land  is  always  damp,  and  dark-green,  and  teeming 
with  sad  memories.  Dick's  story  about  the  mari- 
juana and  the  rain,  and  the  tequila  fatigue  from  last 
night,  they  all  began  to  hit  and  I  felt  disillusioned. 

The  hexagram  presents  a  configuration  of  circum- 
stances in  which  a  strong  element  is  temporarily 
held  in  leash  by  a  weak  element.  It  is  only  through 
gentleness  that  this  can  have  a  successful  outcome. 
(IChinglX) 

Thursday  was  clear  and  sunny.  I  spent  that 
afternoon  lying  by  the  pool.  I  was  way  behind  on 
my  writing,  but  all  I  did  was  soak  up  sun  and  sweat 
and  think.  I  tried  to  ask  Dick  Dettering  about  the 
mushrooms  but  he  didn't  want  to  talk.  He  was 
worrying  about  giving  a  lecture  in  Spanish.  He  had 
given  the  speech  a  hundred  times  in  English,  but 
he  had  no  ear  for  Spanish  and  when  he  read  the 
translation  he  sounded  like  a  Midwesterner  reading 
names  from  the  Cuernavaca  telephone  book.  He 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  mushrooms. 

When  the  sun  would  get  too  hot,  I'd  take  my  son 
Jack's  rubber  water  goggles  and  his  snorkle  breath- 
ing tube  and  swim  in  the  pool.  The  mask  made  every- 
thing under  water  seem  sharp, 

clean, 

clear, 

clear.  .  .  . 
grained  surface  of  pool  ...  abstract  canvas  .  .  . 
blue  tile  border  glowing  .  .  .  sapphire  ribbon  .  .  . 
living  green  threads  .  .  .  hung  in  azure  .  .  .  sun- 
specked  water  .  .  .  before  .  .  .  pool  was  .  .  . 
pool  blue  water  .  .  .  felt  good  when  hot  .  .  .  now 
.  .  .  giant  .  .  .  fluid  .  .  .  gem  box.  .  .  . 

The  pool  had  not  changed.  My  retina  and  the 
brain  stuff  behind  it  had  changed,  turned-on.  The 
water  hadn't  been  drained  in  two  weeks  and  all 
that  green  algae  stuff,  however  beautiful  to  the 


Playboy:  How  many  times 
have  you  used  LSD,  Dr. 
Leary? 


Leary:  Up  to  this  moment, 
I've  had  311  psychedelic 
sessions. 


Playboy:  What  do  you  think 
it's  done  for  you — and  to 
you? 


Leary:  That's  difficult  to  an- 
swer easily.  Let  me  say 
this:  when  I  was  39  I  had 
my  first  psychedelic  ex- 
perience. At  that  time  I  was 
a  middle-aged  man  in- 
volved in  the  middle-aged 
process  of  dying. 


My  joy  in  life,  my  sensual 
openness,  my  creativity 
were  all  sliding  downhill. 


Since  that  time,  six  years 
ago,  my  life  has  been  re- 
newed in  almost  every  di- 
mension. 


42  00    The  Revelation  Is  Awe-Full 


Most  of  my  colleagues  at 
the  University  of  California 
and  at  Harvard,  of  course, 
feel  that  I've  become  ec- 
centric and  a  kook. 


I  would  estimate  that  fewer 
than  15  percent  of  my  pro- 
fessional colleagues  under- 
stand and  support  what 
I'm  doing. 


The  ones  who  do,  as  you 
might  expect,  tend  to  be 
among  the  younger  psy- 
chologists. Psychedelic 
drugs  are  the  medium  of  the 
young.  As  you  move  up  the 
age  scale — into  the  30's, 
40's,  and  50's — fewer  and 
fewer  people  are  open  to 
the  possibilities  that  these 
chemicals  offer. 


Playboy:  Why  is  that? 


Leary:  To  the  person  over 
35  or  40,  the  word  "drug" 
means  one  of  two  things: 
doctor-disease  or  dope 
fiend-crime. 


Nothing  you  can  say  to  a 
person  who  has  this  neuro- 
logical fix  on  the  word 
"drug"  is  going  to  change 
his  mind. 


mushroomed  eye,  had  to  go.  The  next  morning  we 
were  expecting  special  guests.  The  Soviet  cultural 
attache  coming  down  for  the  day.  I  had  met  him 
twice  at  cocktail  parties  where  he  had  been  sur- 
rounded by  my  countrymen,  politically  wise  beyond 
their  years  from  reading  Time  magazine  and 
liquored  up  enough  to  think  they  could  win  the 
great  debate.  Both  times  I  had  felt  shame  at  the 
spectacle  and  had  moved  in  to  talk  friendly  with 
him  about  Russian  education  and  his  impressions  of 
Mexico  and  Cuba.  He  was  young,  new  at  his  job, 
eager  to  be  liked,  well-informed,  terribly  confident, 
proud  of  his  country,  and,  when  tight,  pathetically 
puzzled  at  why  Americans  misunderstood  him  and 
his  peaceful  intentions. 

I  wanted  things  to  go  smoothly  when  Leonov 
and  his  friends  arrived  for  lunch.  The  pool  should 
be  emptied  and  cleaned.  This  meant  a  clash  with 
Lola  the  maid.  To  her  it  meant  extra  work  and  a 
larger  water  bill  to  explain  to  her  absentee  land- 
lords. Nothing  for  her  to  gain.  Something  to  lose. 
Passive  resistance.  Also,  she  had  changed  since  I 
took  the  mushrooms.  She  was  suspicious.  I  had 
angered  her  somehow.  Made  her  afraid  of  me.  I 
knew  she'd  stall  until  3:30  so  our  water  would  drain 
on  the  eighth  green  of  the  golf  club  after  sunset. 

At  3:30  I  mobilized  my  son  and  Pepe  his  friend. 
If  we  cleaned  it  now  and  started  filling  at  sundown 
it  would  be  full  enough  for  the  Russians  to  swim 
the  next  day.  Pepe,  go  tell  your  mother  we  are 
going  to  clean  the  pool. 

Lola  came  darting  out  of  her  cottage.  She  shook 
her  head  as  we  talked.  The  gardener  was  at  school. 
Mariana.  Mariana  es  mejor.  Hear  me,  Lola,  Tomor- 
row is  Friday.  Come  friends  tomorrow  from  Mex- 
ico. Necessitates  much  time  to  fill  the  pool.  Correct? 
We  must  clean  the  pool  today  or  wait  until  Mon- 
day. True?  Okay,  Lola,  you  are  the  director.  We 
shall  wait.  But  she  didn't. 

In  the  morning  the  pool  was  clean  but  empty.  A 
thin  trickle  of  fresh  water  puddled  on  the  bottom. 
No  one  would  swim  today,  Russians  or  Americans. 
Ruth  was  drinking  coffee.  She  was  calm  and 
amused  at  my  anger.  She  defended  the  maid.  Lola 
was  in  the  kitchen.  When  I  finished  giving  her  my 


September  1960  00    43 


opinion  I  banged  my  hand  on  the  metal  sink.  Ruth's 
cool  disapproving  eyes  followed  me  into  the  bed- 
room. I  was  in  a  rage,  undercut  by  both  women. 
Gone  mushroom  tranquility. 

I  was  still  smarting  when  the  Russian  came.  The 
day  went  badly.  It  was  hot  and  they  had  brought 
their  bathing  suits.  Aztec  duplicity  exposed  Ameri- 
can inhospitality  to  Communist  diplomat.  We  sat 
by  the  end  of  the  pool  listening  to  the  thin  splash  of 
water  and  drank  too  much  too  early  in  the  day.  I 
talked  to  him  about  the  mushrooms,  but  he  wasn't 
interested  and  became  irritable.  The  weary  pushing 
of  alcohol-soggy  symbols  back  and  forth  across  the 
board.  He  wanted  to  know  why  Americans  used 
germ  warfare  in  Korea.  The  only  mistake  the  Rus- 
sians made  in  Hungary  was  to  delay  sending  in 
troops.  Russian  women  were  by  far  the  most  beau- 
tiful in  the  world.  The  American  secret  police 
would  arrest  me  if  he  came  to  see  me  in  America.  I 
was  going  to  give  him  my  address  so  that  he  would 
be  sure  to  visit  me  in  Cambridge  anyway,  but  after 
they  left,  I  remembered  that  I  had  forgotten. 

Lola  had  stayed  out  of  sight  most  of  the  day,  and 
when  she  appeared  down  on  the  lawn  feeding  the 
animals,  our  eyes  never  met. 

The  next  day  was  my  last  day  at  the  villa.  Dick 
Alpert  and  my  son  and  I  were  to  fly  back  to 
California  after  the  weekend.  And  the  weekend 
continued  bad.  Gerhart  and  Joan  and  Mandy  ar- 
rived at  noon.  They  brought  no  mushrooms.  Ger- 
hart had  climbed  for  three  hours  to  reach  the 
village,  but  Juana  the  witch  was  nowhere  to  be 
found.  No  one  knew  where  she  was  nor  when  she'd 
come  back.  The  villagers  were  mysterious  and 
evasive. 

This  didn't  bother  any  of  last  week's  veterans.  No 
one  really  wanted  to  repeat.  I  was  expecting  one 
prospective  mushroomer  later  in  the  day,  but  I 
wasn't  disturbed  by  the  thought  of  his  missing  out. 
He  was  an  anthropologist  who  had  spent  three 
years  in  a  Mexican  village,  which  he  now  called 
"my  village,"  and  he  and  his  wife  sang  Mexican 
ballads  together  and  produced  endless  facts  about 
Mexican  life.  He  was  a  pleasant  intellectual  chap 


He's  frozen  like  a  Pavlovian 
dog  to  this  conditioned  re- 
flex. To  people  under 
25,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
word  "drug"  refers  to  a 
wide  range  of  mind  benders 
running  from  alcohol,  ener- 
gizers,  and  stupefiers  to 
marijuana  and  the  other 
psychedelic  drugs. 


To  middle-aged  America, 
it  may  be  synonymous  with 
instant  insanity,  but  to  most 
Americans  under  25,  the 
psychedelic  drug  means 
ecstasy,  sensual  unfolding, 
religious  experience,  reve- 
lation, illumination,  contact 
with  nature. 


There's  not  a  teen-ager  or 
young  person  in  the  United 
States  today  who  doesn't 
know  at  least  one  person 
who  has  had  a  good  ex- 
perience with  marijuana  or 
LSD. 


The  horizons  of  the  current 
younger  generation,  in 
terms  of  expanded  con- 
sciousness, are  light-years 
beyond  those  of  their  par- 
ents. 


The  breakthrough  has  oc- 
curred; there's  no  going 
back.  The  psychedelic  bat- 
tle is  won. 


44  00   The  Revelation  Is  Awe-Full 


Playboy:  Why,  then,  have 
you  called  for  a  one-year 
"cease-fire"  on  the  use  of 
LSD  and  marijuana? 


Leary:  Because  there  have 
never  been  two  generations 
of  human  beings  so  far 
apart — living  essentially  in 
two  different  worlds,  speak- 
ing two  different  languages 
— as  the  people  over  25 
and  the  younger  generation. 


Evolutionary  misunderstand- 
ing causes  bloodshed  and 
imprisonment. 


but  scared  stiff  of  the  mushrooms.  He  wanted  to 
take  them  because  it  was  like  a  duty.  If  he  was  to 
know  Mexico  he  should  know  the  native  ritual. 

Gerhart  had  an  idea.  We  can  give  him  the  mush- 
rooms left  over  from  last  week.  They're  dried  by 
now,  but  that's  all  right.  They  retain  their  potency 
indefinitely.  Just  to  make  sure,  we  can  start  him  out 
on  a  stronger  dose. 

The  anthropologist  and  his  wife  arrived  at  two 
and  when  I  went  to  the  gate  to  let  them  in,  there 
were  three  American  college  kids  about  to  ring  the 
bell.  They  were  friends  of  Poet  Betty.  The  boy  was 
a  Princeton  sophomore  and  the  girls  were  just 
starting  at  Mount  Holyoke  College.  The  college 
crowd  went  inside  to  change  into  swimming  suits 
and  I  mixed  drinks  and  sat  in  the  dining  room 
talking  with  the  anthropologist  about  the  mush- 
room situation.  He  said  he  was  willing  to  try  them 
dried.  His  wife  would  watch.  He  was  extremely 


nervous. 


To  relieve  this  situation  I 
have  asked  the  younger 
generation  to  cool  it  for  a 
year  and  to  use  this  mora- 
torium period  to  explain  to 
their  parents — and  to  their 
jailers — what  LSD  and 
marijuana  are,  and  why  we 
want  and  intend  to  use 
them. 


I  have  made  clear  that  this 
is  a  voluntary  waiving  of  the 
constitutional  right  to 
change  your  own  con- 
sciousness. 


Do  you  wish  to  look,  Frodo?  said  the  Lady  Galad- 
riel.  You  did  not  wish  to  see  Elf-magic  and  were 
content. 

Do  you  advise  me  to  look?  asked  Frodo. 

No,  she  said.  I  do  not  counsel  you  one  way  or 
another.  I  am  not  a  counsellor.  You  may  learn 
something,  and  whether  what  you  see  be  fair  or 
evil,  that  may  be  profitable,  and  yet  it  may  not. 
Seeing  is  both  good  and  perilous.  Yet  I  think, 
Frodo,  that  you  have  courage  and  wisdom  enough 
for  the  venture,  or  I  would  not  have  brought  you 
here.  Do  as  you  will! 

I  will  look,  said  Frodo,  and  he  climbed  on  the 
pedestal  and  bent  over  the  dark  water.  (The  Lord 
of  the  Rings) 


But  I  suggested  this  as  a 
conciliatory  gesture  to  mol- 
lify and  educate  the  older 
generation  and  to  allow 
time  for  the  younger  people 
to  learn  more  about  how 
to  turn  on. 


I  was  worried  a  bit  about  the  anthropological 
panic  and  decided  to  round  up  someone  to  take  the 
visions  with  him.  If  necessary,  I  was  resolved  to 
join  him  myself,  although  I  had  no  desire  to  do  so. 
The  college  kids  were  the  only  ones  around  the  villa 
who  hadn't  mushroomed  and  when  I  asked  them, 
they  said  sure,  why  not.  The  young  kids  were  the 
first  people  I  had  talked  to  who  were  not  automati- 


September  1960  00   45 


cally,  reflexedly  frightened  at  the  idea  of  expanding 
consciousness.  The  psychedelic  generation. 

So  we  all  sat  around  the  dining  room  table  while 
I  counted  the  black  twisted  knobs  into  five  bowls. 
Eight  for  anthro.  Eight  for  Princeton.  Eight  to  tall 
Mount  Holyoke,  eight  to  short. 

And  eight  in  the  fifth  bowl  which  I  kept  in  front 
of  me.  Three  college  kids  examined  the  dried  sticks 
curiously  and  popped  them  in  their  mouths.  They 
went  through  their  bowls  quickly.  Good  little  chil- 
dren. Then  they  sat  back  happily  waiting  for  the 
trance. 

Not  anthro.  He  picked  up  a  knob,  studied  it  from 
every  angle,  sniffed  it,  asked  several  questions 
about  their  origin  and  their  effect.  I  could  see  drops 
of  sweat  on  his  brow  just  below  the  hair  line.  He 
didn't  look  happy.  Finally,  seeing  that  we  were  all 
watching  him,  waiting,  he  bit  the  end  of  the  plant 
and  made  tasting  sounds.  Then  his  face  scrunched 
up.  Whew,  they  taste  rotten.  Are  you  sure  they 
aren't  poisonous?  He  took  another  bite  and  asked 
about  dysentery.  He  continued  to  eat  very  slowly, 
forcing  them  down. 

The  green  bowl  in  front  of  me  became  a  magnet. 
Why  not  take  them  and  return  to  the  garden  of 
ecstasy?  More  wisdom  waits  there.  My  mind 
argued  for  taking  the  mushrooms.  So  simple.  There 
they  are  in  the  bowl  ten  inches  from  your  mouth. 
But  there  wasn't  one  shred  of  desire  pushing  me 
towards  them.  My  brain  said  yes.  The  second  ex- 
perience will  be  more  enlightening.  It  will  give  you 
a  basis  for  comparison.  But  I  was  scared  too.  I  must 
have  spent  five  minutes  sitting  there  holding  a 
black  knob  between  my  thumb  and  forefinger. 
Finally,  I  threw  it  back  and  pushed  the  bowl  away. 
I'll  take  them  if  Dick  Alpert  wants  to  join  me  when 
he  arrives. 

The  college  crowd  had  long  since  drifted  out  to 
the  patio,  lying  on  beach  chairs,  waiting.  Anthro 
still  sat  stiffly  in  front  of  his  half -emptied  bowl.  He 
never  did  finish  them.  His  wife  sat  next  to  him  in 
solemn  silence. 

After  thirty  minutes,  after  forty  minutes,  after 
fifty  minutes,  nothing  had  happened.  After  an  hour 
the  colleges  ate  the  rest  of  the  mushrooms  and  after 


I'm  demanding  that  this 
period  also  be  a  mora- 
torium on  hysterical  legis- 
lation and  on  punitive  ar- 
rests of  young  people  for 
the  possession  of  LSD  and 
marijuana. 


If  at  the  end  of  one  year, 
the  older  generation  has 
not  taken  advantage  of  this 
cease-fire,  I  predict  and  in- 
deed urge  a  firm  statement 
on  the  part  of  everyone  in- 
volved that  they  intend  to 
resume  the  use  of  psyche- 
delics. 


That  they  will  exercise  their 
constitutional  rights  to  ex- 
pand their  own  conscious- 
ness— whatever  the  cost. 


Playboy:  What  do  you  say 
to  the  standard  charge  that 
LSD  is  too  powerful  and 
dangerous  to  entrust  to  the 
young? 


Leary:  Well,  none  of  us  yet 
knows  exactly  how  LSD  can 
be  used  for  the  growth  and 
benefit  of  the  human  being. 


It  is  a  powerful  releaser  of 
energy  as  yet  not  fully  un- 
derstood. But  if  I'm  con- 
fronted with  the  possibility 
that  a  15-year-old  or  a  50- 
year-old  is  going  to  use  a 
new  form  of  energy  that  he 
doesn't  understand,  I'll 
back  the  15-year-old  every 
time. 


46  00   The  Revelation  Is  Awe-Full 


Why?  Because  a  15-year- 
old  is  going  to  use  a  new 
form  of  energy  to  have 
fun,  to  intensify  sensation, 
to  make  love,  for  curiosity, 
for  personal  growth. 


Many  50-year-olds  have  lost 
their  curiosity,  have  lost 
their  ability  to  make  love, 
have  dulled  their  openness 
to  new  sensations,  and 
would  use  any  form  of  new 
energy  for  power,  control, 
and  warfare. 


So  it  doesn't  concern  me  at 
all  that  young  people  are 
taking  time  out  from  the 
educational  and  occupa- 
tional assembly  lines  to  ex- 
periment with  conscious- 
ness, to  dabble  with  new 
forms  of  experience  and  ar- 
tistic expression. 


The  present  generation  un- 
der the  age  of  25  is  the 
wisest  and  holiest  genera- 
tion that  the  human  race 
has  ever  seen. 


And,  by  God,  instead  of 
lamenting,  derogating  and 
imprisoning  them,  we 
should  support  them,  listen 
to  them,  and  turn  on  with 
them. 

00 


two  hours  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  apologize 
like  a  poor  host.  The  college  faces  were  fallen  in 
disappointment,  but  anthro  and  wife  didn't  seem  to 
mind. 

Dick  Alpert  and  the  McClellands  from  Tepoztlan 
arrived  and  some  more  people  from  the  capital 
dropped  in  and  a  professor  from  Amherst  got  lec- 
turing drunk  and  a  State  Department  officer,  who 
was  bitter  about  his  job  and  our  Latin  policy  and 
his  boss,  got  very  funny,  sarcastic  drunk  and  the 
others  sat  around  the  table  and  made  intellectual 
talk.  And  that  was  about  the  way  the  summer  in 
Cuernavaca  ended. 

Oh  no,  there  was  one  final  incident  on  Sunday 
morning.  I  went  through  that  saddest  routine  of 
packing  and  checking  the  house  over  and  over 
again,  finding  things  that  I  had  forgotten.  Not 
enough  room  in  the  trunks  and  all  this  with  a 
hangover  and  not  enough  sleep  and  the  lousy  feel- 
ing that  had  persisted  all  week  since  Dick  Alpert 
told  me  about  marijuana. 

Lola  was  still  keeping  out  of  sight  and  when  I 
did  intersect  her  in  the  dining  room,  she  looked  at 
me  with  distrust  and  narrowed  her  eyes  as  though  I 
were  dangerous  somehow. 

When  the  last  suitcase  was  locked,  my  son  made 
the  inevitable  discovery  that  a  toy  had  been  left 
out.  It  was  a  plastic  machine  gun  that  shot  corks. 
He  and  Pepe  had  been  ambushing  enemy  all  sum- 
mer with  their  guns.  It  was  large  and  bulky  and 
impossible  to  pack.  Then  an  image  of  Lola  in  the 
final  scene  occurred  to  me.  Look,  Jack,  I  want  you 
to  leave  the  gun  here,  okay?  All  right,  but  why? 
Pepe  already  has  one.  Never  mind.  Watch  and 
you'll  see. 

When  I  took  the  last  suitcase  out  to  the  car,  I  was 
carrying  the  gun.  I  laid  it  carefully  on  the  driver's 
seat.  Then  I  gave  Lola  two  hundred  and  fifty  pesos 
and  we  said  good-bye  and  promised  to  write  and 
we  moved  out  to  the  sidewalk.  Dick  Alpert  and 
Jack  were  in  the  car.  I  called  Jack  out  and  handed 
him  the  machine  gun.  Jack,  give  this  to  Lola  and 
say  this  is  for  her.  You  see,  it  was  my  wish  to  drive 
off  waving  to  Lola  and  to  have  her  standing  by  the 
gate  with  the  gun  in  her  hand.  Victorious  defender. 
Soldatera. 


48  00    The  Revelation  Is  Awe-Full 


From  The  Reporter: 

When  the  International  Fed- 
eration for  Internal  Free- 
dom was  formed  in  Cam- 
bridge, Massachusetts,  dur- 
ing the  autumn  of  1962,  it 
was  unique  even  in  New 
England,  a  region  not  un- 
familiar with  eccentric  so- 
cial movements. 


IFIF  (pronounced  "if-if,"  as 
if  the  speaker  is  stuttering 
over  some  terrifying  cosmic 
question). 


I  stood  behind  the  car  and  watched  Jack  come 
up  to  Lola  and  make  his  speech  and  watched  her 
take  the  gun  and  look  surprised  and  then  laugh. 
She  seemed  to  understand  and  she  seemed  pleased. 
She  called  something  to  me.  I  be  back  soon,  I  said. 
She  was  nodding  and  smiling  when  the  gun  went 
off.  Her  face  froze  as  she  saw  the  cork  bounce  off 
my  chest.  Her  eyes  dropped  down  to  the  trigger 
still  held  taut  by  her  finger.  Then  when  she  saw  me 
laughing,  she  lifted  the  gun  in  front  of  her  face  as 
though  it  were  an  apron  to  hide  behind  and  she 
began  to  giggle. 

We  were  all  grinning  like  pleased  idiots  as  I  got 
back  in  the  car  and  made  the  U-turn.  And  as  we 
rolled  off  and  waved  adios,  I  was  laughing  and  she 
was  standing  with  the  gun  in  her  right  hand. 


IFIF  preaches  the  gospel 
that  man's  salvation  lies  in 
the  expansion  of  his  own 
consciousness,  a  state 
which,  it  is  asserted,  can 
be  achieved  through  the  in- 
gestion of  such  substances 
as  LSD-25,  psilocybin,  mes- 
caline or  even  the  right 
type  of  morning-glory  seeds. 


Although  a  handful  of  well- 
known  people — most  of  the 
philosophers,  mystics,  and 
theologians — have  lent  IFIF 
support  of  their  names,  sci- 
entific circles  have  in  gen- 
eral been  quite  critical  of 
many  of  its  expressed  be- 
liefs and  goals. 


The  support  of  the  theolo- 
gians and  mystics,  in  com- 
bination with  the  fact  that 
IFIF's  cause  was  unwit- 
tingly nurtured  within  Har- 
vard University,  has  com- 
posed the  movement's  prin- 
cipal credentials. 


Hence  the  image  of  many  clouds,  promising  mois- 
ture and  blessing  to  the  land,  although  as  yet  no 
rain  falls.  The  situation  is  not  unfavorable;  there  is 
a  prospect  of  ultimate  success,  but  there  are  still 
obstacles  in  the  way,  and  we  can  merely  take 
preparatory  measures.  Only  through  the  small 
means  of  friendly  persuasion  can  we  exert  any 
influence.  The  time  has  not  yet  come  for  sweeping 
measures.  However,  we  may  be  able,  to  a  limited 
extent,  to  act  as  a  restraining  and  subduing  influ- 
ence. To  carry  out  our  purpose  we  need  firm  deter- 
mination within  and  gentleness  and  adaptability  in 
external  relations.  ( Wind  over  Heaven ) 

Next  morning,  I  had  trouble  giving  my  car  to  the 
government,  and  it  was  mid-afternoon  by  the  time  I 
got  to  the  airport.  Dick  went  up  to  meteorology  to 
see  if  we  could  beat  the  evening  thunderstorm  out 
of  the  valley,  and  my  son  collected  a  crowd  around 
him  and  his  iguana  in  the  airport  lobby.  Dick  came 
down,  saying  we  had  fifteen  minutes  of  clear 
weather  and  Acapulco  was  blue  and  clean,  so  we 
rushed  down  to  the  Cessna  and  we  stuck  the 
iguana  on  the  shelf  behind  the  rear  seat  and  we 
kissed  Betty  good-bye,  and  Dick  ran  up  the  engine 
and  we  turned  the  corner  onto  the  main  runway 
and  rolled  down  the  wide  concrete  highway  and 
faster  and  faster  and  lifted  up  over  the  brown 


September  1960  00    49 


swamp  flats  and  when  the  tower  said  okay,  we  left 
the  frequency  and  flight  pattern  of  the  field  and 
turned  right  and  began  climbing  to  make  the  height 
of  the  Tres  Marias  and  when  we  didn't  make  it  at 
the  first  run,  we  circled  to  gain  altitude,  looking 
down  at  the  dozens  of  round,  green-hollow-coned 
volcanoes  scattered  over  the  valley  of  Mexico  and 
finally  squeezed  over  the  pass  at  14,000  feet  and  in 
a  half-hour  dropped  down  over  Tepoztlan  and  ran 
the  length  of  the  valley  twice,  buzzing  the  McClel- 
lands'  ranch  and  dipping  the  wings  when  they 
came  running  out  to  wave  and  turned  towards 
Cuernavaca  and  circled  the  villa  and  saw  Lola  and 
Pepe  standing  by  the  swimming  pool  (now  quite 
full,  thank  you)  and  were  surprised  to  see  how 
many  jet  blue  albercas  were  set  alongside  of  how 
many  lush  villas  in  this  rich  little  town  that  Her- 
nando thought  he  conquered. 

We  are  high 

In  the  sky 

Good-bye 

Down  there 

There's  a  fog  on  U.S.A. 

And  my  friends  have  frost  their  way 

We'll  be  up  there  soon  they  said 

But  they've  ground  themselves  instead 

Please  don't  be  down 


For  many  initiates,  the  cre- 
dentials have  been  suf- 
ficient. 


IFIF  offers  by  its  very  exis- 
tence, a  certain  amount  of 
justification  and  rationale 
to  those  who  submit  to  the 
dangerous  attraction  drug- 
taking  holds  for  college  stu- 
dents and  young  people  in 
general. 


"Drugs  have  always  at- 
tracted college  students,"  I 
was  told  recently  by  Dr. 
Dana  L.  Farnsworth,  Direc- 
tor of  the  Harvard  Univer- 
sity Health  Services. 


"But  this  is  the  first  time  in 
history  that  an  organization 
has  existed  to  promote  their 
use." 


After  we  passed  Lake  Tequesquetengo,  Dick  be- 
gan to  teach  me  how  to  fly  and  I  began  learning 
about  the  two  new  dimensions  and,  not  knowing 
how  to  trim  the  plane,  fighting  the  sliding  of  the 
horizon,  while  Dick  bent  over  the  map  and  drew 
red  lines  and  made  calculations. 

It  was  all  pretty  mushroomy,  sitting  up  there  a 
mile  high,  beating  our  own  path  where  no  one  else 
had  ever  been,  beyond  games,  in  touch  with  only 
the  living  moment.  Should  we  climb  those  clouds  or 
sidestep  them  through  that  gap  to  the  north?  In 
touch  with  only  this  immediate  reality— is  Acapulco 
there  or  there?  Realizing  ( as  we  fail  to  realize  down 
below,  although  it  is  as  true  down  below)  that  we 
are  a  moment  away  from  death  and  not  caring  for 
even  that  abstraction,  death,  because  it's  not  a  word 


Caught  unprepared  by  the 
utilization  of  a  variety  of 
hallucinogenic  drugs  in 
many  areas  of  the  U.S.,  law- 
enforcement  officials  and 
health  authorities  do  not 
appear  at  present  to  pos- 
sess the  means  of  coping 
with  the  problem. 


They  are  hampered  by  a 
net  of  vague,  ineffectual 
and  contradictory  legal 
structure. 


50  00    The  Revelation  Is  Awe-Full 


Meanwhile,  in  IFIF's  four- 
room  ground-floor  head- 
quarters at  14  Storey  Street, 
Cambridge,  a  varying  num- 
ber of  blue-jeaned  young 
people  perform  the  clerical 
chores  of  a  growing  or- 
ganization. 


They  work  to  spread  its 
chapters  and  outposts 
through  the  country  and  the 
world,  and  push  an  ag- 
gressive, promotional  drive 
that  has  all  the  earmarks  of 
a  proselytizing  campaign. 

00 


From  LSD  by  Alpert,  Cohen, 
and  Schiller: 

It  is  hard  to  imagine  the 
fantastic  growth  of  LSD  use 
in  the  United  States  since 
1962. 


I  believe  approximately  four 
million  Americans  took  LSD 
last  year,  judging  from  con- 
versation with  suppliers. 


Perhaps  as  many  as  70  per- 
cent of  all  users  now  are 
high  school  and  college 
students.  .  .  . 

00 


or  a  concept  but  a  right-now  decision  about  this 
peak,  that  cloud,  this  push  on  the  rudder  which 
turns  us  towards  Acapulco  airport  or  the  mountain 
cliff. 

We  were  flying  at  no  miles  per  hour,  with  the 
jagged  cotton  fields  ten  feet  below  stretched  out  as 
far  as  we  could  see.  The  world  was  completely  shut 
off.  Somewhere  down  below  were  the  mountains  of 
Guerrero  and  Acapulco  Bay  and  the  Pacific.  But  we 
were  above  and  out  of  it,  skudding  along  the  mile- 
high,  white-capped  ocean. 

Dick  was  leaning  forward  studying  the  horizon 
and  sweeping  his  eyes  down  and  over  the  instru- 
ments and  then  back  to  the  front.  He  turned  to 
brief  me.  Here's  the  situation.  We're  okay  up  here. 
We're  high  enough  to  miss  this  stuff  (he  was 
pointing  to  the  orange  peaks  on  the  map)  but 
sooner  or  later  we'll  have  to  land  and  that  means 
diving  down  blind  through  this  white  crud. 

We  can't  turn  back?  No,  that's  no  good.  Mexico 
City  is  already  socked  in  tight.  And,  if  we  tried  to 
chance  it  north  or  south,  there's  no  guarantee  that 
the  clouds  will  break,  at  5:45  the  acapulco  tower 

RECEIVED  A  CALL  FROM  AN  AIRCRAFT  ON  THE  UNICON. 

What  we'll  have  to  do  is  keep  flying  high  and  wide 
until  we  get  well  beyond  the  coast,  out  over  the 
ocean,  and  then  we  plough  down  through  the 
clouds  until  we  hit  the  clear  above  the  ocean  and 
then  we'll  have  to  turn  back  and  run  the  coast  until 
we  find  Acapulco.  All  we  have  to  do  is  be  sure  we 
fly  far  enough  to  miss  the  coastal  range  and  hope 
there's  enough  ceiling  over  the  Pacific,  rut  the 

AIRCRAFT  IDENTIFICATION  WAS  UNINTELLIGIHLE  DUE  TO 

poor  transmission.  I'll  see  if  I  can  get  Acapulco 
tower  for  a  reading  on  their  ceiling. 

Dick  fiddled  with  the  radio  dial  with  his  left 
hand  and  then  he  took  the  black  plastic  mouthpiece 
in  his  right  hand.  Acapulco,  this  is  Cessna  four-six 
Bravo.  Do  you  hear  me?  repeated  attempts  to 

ESTARLISH  RADIO  CONTACT  WERE  UNSUCCESSFUL.   We 

waited,  listening  to  the  engine  hum  and  the  rush  of 
air  past  the  cabin  windows.  Acapulco  tower.  This  is 
Cessna  four-six  Bravo.  Come  in  Acapulco.  No  an- 
swer. Maybe  they  don't  catch  the  English.  You  call 
them  in  Spanish.  Just  push  the  knob  here  and  talk. 


September  1960  00   51 


NOTHING  WAS  SEEN  OF  THE  PLANE,  OR  ITS  OCCUPANTS, 
UNTIL  FOURTEEN  DAYS  LATER. 

The  mouthpiece  was  cool  and  the  black  wire 
curled  away  and  down  below  the  instrument  panel. 
I  looked  back  at  Jack  strapped  in  the  rear  seat.  His 
eyes  were  big  and  calm-serious,  a  farmer  checking 

TIMRER  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  CAME  UPON  THE  HURNED 

wreckage  of  the  missing  Cessna.  I  cleared  my 
voice.  Acapulco.  Somos  Cessna  cuatro-seis  Bravo. 
Acapulco,  Cessna  cuatro-seis  Bravo  hablando.  No 
answer. 

Dick  made  a  disgusted  noise.  Maybe  they're  on  a 
different  frequency.  Or  maybe  they're  out  to  sup- 
per. Or  maybe  they  don't  have  an  operator. 

So  what  do  we  do  now? 

Dick  motioned  with  his  hand  for  me  to  take  the 
wheel.  Here,  you  take  over.  I'll  try  to  figure  out 
where  we  are  and  when  we  should  hit  the  coast. 
Keep  the  compass  on  270  and  for  God's  sake  keep 
the  altitude  where  it  is  and  just  fly  her  straight. 

EXAMINATION  OF  THE  WRECKAGE  SHOWED  THAT  THE 
AIRCRAFT  STRUCK  TREES  WHDLE  FLYING  IN  A  STRAIGHT 
AND  LEVEL  ALTITUDE. 

And  I  was  all  of  a  sudden  sitting  there  a  mile 
high  in  the  sky  with  three  people  and  an  iguana 
and  several  suitcases  and  a  ton-heavy  plane  holding 
the  whole  business  up  with  just  my  two  hands 
glued  to  the  co-pilot  stick.  It  was  obvious  that  my 
hands  clutched  to  the  wheel  wouldn't  hold  up  the 
plane  and  its  load,  it  cut  through  the  trees  for  a 

DISTANCE  OF  416  FEET  REFORE  IT  FINALLY  CAME  TO 

rest.  I  held  on  tight  squeezing  the  metal  circle  in 
my  hands  afraid  to  move  my  feet  on  the  rudder  or 
relax  my  grip  because  then  we'd  drop  like  a  stone  in 
a  mile-deep  well.  I  could  feel  drops  of  sweat  rolling 
down  from  my  armpits.  The  gray  snowdrifts  ahead 
seemed  to  be  rushing  at  us.  I  squeezed  the  wheel 
harder,  it  could  not  re  determined  whether  or 

NOT  THE   PDLOT  HAD  RECEIVED   A   WEATHER  RRIEFING 

prior  to  take  off.  Panic.  Control.  Frozen  panic. 
My  mind  hung  up  rigid.  Panic. 

Hey.  You're  losing  altitude.  Pull  her  back.  I  sat 
not  moving  except  to  pivot  my  head  to  look  at  Dick. 

FOR  THE  AREA  IN  WHICH  THE  CRASH  OCCURRED  THE 
FDRECARTS  CALLED  FOR  WIDESPREAD  STRATUS  AND  FOG. 


From  Psychedelic  Prayers: 

What    one    values    in    the 
game — 

is  the  play 

fluid 


What    one    values    in    the 
form — 

is  the  moment  of 

forming 

fluid 


What    one    values    in    the 
house — 

is  the  moment  of 

dwelling 

fluid 


What    one    values    in    the 
heart — 

is  the  beat 

pulsing 


What    one    values    in    the 
action — 

is  the  timing 

fluid 


Indeed 

because  you  flow  like 

water 

you  can  neither  win 

nor  lose 

00 


52  00    The  Revelation  Is  Awe-Full 


From  Time: 

An  epidemic  of  "acid 
heads" — the  disease  is 
striking  in  beachside  beat- 
nik pads  and  in  the  dormi- 
tories of  expensive  prep 
schools; 


It  has  grown  into  an  alarm- 
ing problem  at  U.C.L.A.  and 
on  the  U.C.  campus  at 
Berkeley. 


And  everywhere  the  diagno- 
sis is  the  same:  psychotic 
illness  resulting  from  un- 
authorized, nonmedical  use 
of  the  drug  LSD-25. 


Patients  with  post-LSD 
symptoms  are  providing  the 
U.C.L.A.  neuropsychiatric 
institute  with  10%  to  15% 
of  its  cases:  more  are  flock- 
ing to  the  university's  gen- 
eral medical  center  and  the 
county  general  hospital. 


By  best  estimates,  10,000 
students  in  the  University 
of  California  system  have 
tried  LSD  (though  not  all 
have  suffered  detectable  ill 
effects). 


No  one  can  even  guess  how 
many  more  selfstyled  "acid 
heads"  there  are  among 
oddball  cult  groups. 


He  had  a  puzzled  look  and  moved  his  fingers 
lightly  to  his  stick  and  nudged  it  gently  back.  The 
nose  of  the  plane  rose  and  I  saw  the  indicator  level 
off.  Dick  was  grinning  at  me.  Keep  us  up  there,  old 
man.  ceilings  were  expected  to  be  8oo  to  1200 

FEET  OVERCAST  WITH  VISIBILITIES  OF  FROM  TWO  TO 
FOUR  MILES  IN  FOG,  VARIABLE  TO  200  FEET. 

The  confident  smile  of  the  experienced  guide 
broke  the  spell.  I  let  off  squeezing  the  stick  and 
pulled  it  up  towards  me  and  felt  the  rushing  air 
pushing  under  the  plane,  solidly  holding  it  up  there 
a  mile  high,  and  pushed  the  rudder  left  foot  and 
saw  the  needle  swing  slowly  back  to  270,  and  I  and 
the  plane  were  flying  along  just  so  smooth  up  there 
above  the  white  caps  and  I  began  to  grin  and  to 
feel  with  it.  High,  it  was  decided  that  there  the 

AIRPLANE   STRUCK  THE   MOUNTAINSIDE  AT  2,700  FEET 

msl.  I  turned  my  head  around  and  squeezed  Jack's 
leg  and  grinned  at  him  and  thought  about  how 
great  and  brave  he  was  and  how  I  loved  him  and  I 
looked  over  at  Dick  bending  over  the  charts  and 
thought  about  how  lucky  it  was  that  I  trusted  him 
and  how  he  trusted  me  and  that  was  it,  the  good- 
ness of  the  moment,  the  three  of  us  together,  and 
this  was  the  way  it  always  should  be  on  the  trip,  it 

WAS  THEN  IN  SOLID  INSTRUMENT  WEATHER  CONDITIONS 

—  No  worry.  No  worry  about  getting  down  or 
coming  back  to  the  ground.  Dick  was  wise  and 
skilled  and  trustworthy.  You  couldn't  ask  for  better 
there,  —which  precluded  the  possibility  of  the 

PILOT  EVER  HAVING  SEEN  THE  TERRAIN— UNTIL  IT  WAS 

too  late.  And  son  Jack  back  there  with  his  blue 
shorts  and  his  sunburned  legs  and  his  tousled  hair 
and  his  always  dirty  face  smiling  back  at  me  and 
not  worried,  trusting  me,  and  I  was  thinking  that 
life  is  really  no  different  anywhere  in  air  or  down 
there.  Aren't  we  always  just  a  breath  away  from 
death,  and  all  that  counts  up  here  or  down  there  is 
to  be  with  people  you  love  and  trust  and  not  caring 
about  the  future,  or  the  past,  gone  and  done  and 
less  meaning  than  that  air  pocket  we  bounced  over 
a  mile  there  a  minute  back. 

We  should  be  over  Acapulco  right  about  now, 
said  Dick.  His  head  was  still  turned  down  to  the 
charts.  Then  he  looked  up  and  said,  Hey.  Hey,  look 


54  00    The  Revelation  Is  Awe-Full 


'Florid  &  terrifying." 


Southern  California  dev- 
otees proclaim  the  alleged 
benefits  of  LSD  with  evan- 
gelistic fervor.  They  say  it 
brings  supernatural  powers. 


It    does    not,    say 
psychiatrists. 


U.C.L.A. 


Some  say  it  is  an  aphrodis- 
iac. It  is  not. 


They  say  it  helps  the  user 
to  solve  his  emotional  prob- 
lems. 


It  may — but  only  if  the  solu- 
tion is  already  in  the  mind, 
hidden  behind  an  emotional 
block. 


What  LSD  actually  has  done 
for  far  too  many  users,  says 
U.C.L.A. 's  psychiatric  resi- 
dent Duke  D.  Fisher,  is 
to  produce  "florid  psycho- 
ses with  terrifying  visual 
and  auditory  hallucinations, 
marked  depression,  often 
with  serious  suicide  at- 
tempts and  anxiety  border- 
ing on  panic." 


One  patient  tried  to  kill  him- 
self when  he  thought  his 
body  was  melting,  and  he 
remained  suicidal  for  more 
than  two  weeks,  after  only 
one  dose  of  LSD. 


at  this.  He  was  pointing  over  there  to  the  left  to  a 
hole,  a  tiny  hole  in  the  gray  clouds,  a  peep  hole,  a 
rent  in  the  cotton  fabric  and  through  it  glistening 
the  blue  water,  the  ocean. 

Let  me  take  her  down,  that  hole  is  closing  fast. 
He  swung  the  stick  over  and  rolled  the  plane  dizzy- 
ingly  on  its  side  and  we  began  to  fall  sideways, 
stomach  gasping,  ears  hurting,  and  by  now  the  hole 
in  the  clouds  was  smaller  than  our  wingspread  but 
we  needled  through  it,  falling  sideways,  left  cheek 
pointing  to  the  lovely  gray- green  endless  rippling 
world  of  water  below. 

The  next  problem  is  to  find  land  and  then  run  up 
the  coast  to  Acapulco.  Dick  was  banking  sharply  to 
the  right  and  as  we  turned  the  long  corner  and 
leveled  off,  there  were  the  high  cliffs  on  one  side 
with  the  hotels  stuck  on  top  and  there  way  over  to 
the  right  was  the  high  promontory  rolling  to  the 
sea,  with  the  villas  and  hotels  nailed  to  the  slopes, 
and  we  were  slicing  a  line  right  smack  down  the 
middle  of  Acapulco  Bay.  We  had  hit  it  blindly  right 
on  the  center. 

The  wind  can  indeed  drive  the  clouds  together  in 
the  sky;  yet,  being  nothing  but  air,  without  solid 
body,  it  does  not  produce  great  or  lasting  effects. 
So  also  an  individual,  in  times  when  he  can  pro- 
duce no  great  effect  in  the  outer  world,  can  do 
nothing  except  refine  the  expression  of  his  nature 
in  small  ways.  ( I  Ching  IX ) 

We  had  breakfast  next  morning  on  the  open 
terrace  of  Caleta  looking  down  at  the  morning 
beach  and  the  red  surfboards  bobbing  on  the  blue 
bay  and  over  to  Roqueta,  the  island,  palmy  and 
green.  Then  Jack  sprang  again  the  question  he  had 
been  springing  all  summer  and  never  answered— 
how  about  skin  diving?  It  was  now  or  never  be- 
cause we  were  flying  north  at  summer's  end.  Dick 
pulled  out  a  map  and  checked  the  mileage  and  we 
counted  up  the  flying  hours  on  our  fingers  and  Dick 
looked  at  Jack's  hopeful  eyes  and  said,  sure,  we  can 
afford  an  hour  or  two  for  something  important  like 
skin  diving  and  Jack  began  to  grin. 

I  rented  a  set  for  Jack  and  me  and  we  walked 
with  Jose  the  instructor  down  to  the  beach,  all  of 
us  in  swimming  trunks  and  Jack  carrying  the  heavy 


September  1960  00   55 


air  tank.  I  was  to  dive  first  for  a  half-hour  while 
Jack  watched  and  then  he  was  to  take  over.  I  stood 
knee-deep  in  the  warm  surf  and  Jose  lifted  the  tank 
on  my  back  and  began  strapping  me  in  while  I 
braced  my  legs  against  the  weight.  The  belt  of 
round  lead  slugs  got  tied  around  my  waist  and  the 
rubber  mask  over  my  eyes  and  Jose  showed  me  how 
to  clear  the  mask  of  water  by  tilting  the  corner  and 
blowing  and  he  stuck  the  rubber  tube  end  in  my 
mouth  and  I  felt  the  cold  surgical  taste  of  oxygen 
and  heard  the  hiss  hiss  of  the  air  rush  and  a  cast- 
iron  mechanical  duck  waddled  with  finned  feet  out 
beyond  the  breakers  and  Jose's  brown  arms  mo- 
tioned down  and  I  took  a  deep  gulp  of  the  cool 
rubbery  air  in  the  mouthpiece  and  pushed  down 
under  the  surface. 

Down  to  no  place.  I  didn't  sink  and  I  didn't  rise, 
just  stayed  there  suspended  a  foot  or  so  under 
water  getting  used  to  breathing  through  a  tube  and 
fighting  the  panic,  the  panic  bred  of  the  lifelong 
habit  of  rising  to  the  surface  to  breathe.  Jose  was 
right  there  by  me  and  I  watched  the  bubbles  up 
around  his  face  and  looked  inside  his  mask  at  the 
black  eyes  glaring  out  and  saw  his  hands  motioning 
down  and  his  sleek  brown  legs  pumping  and  him 
slicing  down  fishy  deeper,  hands  and  feet  finning 
him  along.  He  stopped  and  turned  and  made  wavy 
gill  motions  and  I  got  the  point  and  pushed  clumsy 
with  my  hands  up  and  kicked  and  started  dropping 
down  and  there  was  the  bottom,  sandy  and  clear, 
every  brown  grain  in  sharp  focus  and  the  bottom 
creatures,  tawny  purple  shells  and  spiny  quilled 
animals  breathing  softly,  and  clean  rocks. 

We  were  swimming  along  together  slowly,  two 
giant  humpbacked  fish  nosing  across  this  new  bot- 
tom world.  Jose  turned  and  put  his  thumb  and  fore- 
finger together  to  ask  okay  and  I  made  the  same 
sign,  sure  okay  and  I  saw  his  eyes  inside  the  mask 
smiling  at  me  and  right  there  at  that  moment 
everything  became  okay,  exultant  new  world  vision, 
a  new  thrilly  freedom 
down 

down 

down 

in  the  blue  glass 
light  world. 


Other  patients  have  re- 
quired more  than  two 
months  of  psychiatric  hos- 
pitalization. 


Still  others  have  been  sent 
to  state  hospitals  for  long- 
term  treatment. 


Adds  U.C.L.A.  psychiatrist 
J.  Thomas  Ungerleider: 
"The  symptoms  may  recur 
in  their  original  intensity 
long  after  the  last  dose  of 
the  drug. 


Many  users  have  had  this 
experience." 


The  varied  types  of  LSD 
users  include  vast  numbers 
of  thrill  seekers. 


Most  have  tried  marijuana, 
then  the  amphetamines,  be- 
fore "graduating"  them- 
selves to  what  they  regard 
as  the  ultimate  in  kicks. 


In  the  rebellious  student 
groups  like  those  at  Berke- 
ley many  are  trying  LSD  be- 
cause they  feel  lost  on 
an  impersonal,  bustling 
campus: 


Others  have  been  squeezed 
by  the  need  to  make  better 
grades  to  avoid  the  draft. 


One  of  the  most  disturbing 
aspects  of  the  LSD  binge 
is  that  it  has  hit  high 
schools  and  prep  schools. 

00 


56  00    The  Revelation  Is  Awe-Full 


From  the  Associated  Press: 

LSD-25  and  similar  drugs 
that  drastically  alter  sen- 
sory perception  have  the 
power  to  permanently  crip- 
ple the  mind,  an  editorial  in 
the  Sept.  14  Journal  of  the 
American  Medical  Associa- 
tion warned  today. 
00 


From  Cosmopolitan: 

So  serious  do  physicians 
and  psychiatrists  view  the 
fad  for  this  drug  that  Dr. 
Roy  Grinker,  chief  editor  of 
the  AMA's  Archives  of  Gen- 
eral Psychiatry,  recently 
wrote  an  editorial  in  his 
publication  warning  that  the 
drug  could  be  fatal  if  used 
indiscriminately 


Free 

Weightless,  fin-driven 

Free  from  earth 

Free  from  air 

For  the  first  time  free  from 

Gravity  grasp 

Dirt  free,  talk  free 

Path,  road,  and  sidewalk  free 

Free 

To  slide  through  trackless  sea  space 

Thinking  of  the  world  above 

Did  it  ever? 

Do  they  really  walk  around  up  there? 
Bodies  draped  in  cloth 
Feet  in  leather  boxes 
Fixed,  dimension  flat  paths 
Through  dust  and  spit  and  dung 
And  cigarette  butts 
Through  cooking  smells 
Exhaust  fumes 


and  that  many  psychiatrists 
had  become  so  enamored 
with  its  "mystical,  halluci- 
natory state"  that  they  were 
"disqualified  as  competent 
investigators." 


He  further  complained  the 
drug  was  being  imprudently 
publicized  and  endorsed  by 
"movie  actors  and  televi- 
sion artists." 


Through  noise 

Horn,  screech,  fart,  squeal,  cough,  clash 

And  talk  clatter? 

Here  clear  water  still 

Sliding  silence  of  the  deep  deaf 

Only  hiss  hiss  of  tube 

Spilling  upward,  bouncing,  bubbly 

Laughter. 

Down  there  it's  not  a  wet  world 
Wet  is  land  talk. 


This  last  crack  was  a  direct 
slap  at  Hollywood,  where 
LSD  received  its  first  major 
burst  of  publicity,  and 
where  some  of  its  most  de- 
voted rooters  live. 


Actually,  Hollywood  was 
buzzing  over  LSD  as  far 
back  as  1959. 


Down  there  it's  not  a  worry  world 
Worry  is  land  think. 

no  job 

no  worry 

no  money 

no  hurry 

no  past 

no  future 

no  think  talk  walk 

no  hating 

no  waiting 


September  1960  00   57 


no  striving 
no  reading  writing 
Just 

Everything 
So  new 
My  teeth  were  clenched  hard  on  the  rubber 
mouthpiece  .  .  .  jaw  muscles  taut  and  hurting 
.  .  .  snap  .  .  .  molars  clank  together  .  .  .  mouth- 
piece bit  through  .  .  .  can't  hold  tight  in  mouth 
.  .  .  water  seeping  in  mask  .  .  .  did  he  say  swal- 
low or  blow  out  .  .  .  vision  blurry  from  water  in 
mask  ...  hiss  hiss  of  air  .  .  .  keep  cool  .  .  . 
ten  feet  under  .  .  .  100- 
.  .  100-pound  leads  on  belt 
.  trouble  holding  shredded 
.  fear  fear  panic  fear 
weighted    down    with 


what's     situation  . 
pound  tank  on  back  .  . 
.  .  .  water  in  mask  .  . 
mouthpiece  with   teeth 
.  .  .  can    I    go    back? 


metal  .  .  .  trapped  .  .  .  can  I  get  back  .  .  .  want 
to  get  back  .  .  .  want  my  dirty  world  back  .  .  . 
maybe  trapped  .  .  .  want  go  back  .  .  .  now! 

I  squatted  down  with  my  feet  on  the  sandy 
bottom  and  pushed  up,  uncoiling  torpedoing  up, 
whoosh,  breaking  up  through  surface  with  splash, 
ripping  off  mouthpiece,  mask,  gulping  free  air 
blinking  at  sunlight.  Splash  beside  me,  Jose,  face 
amused,  worried,  back  on  the  worry  dimension. 
Con  calma.  Con  calma,  hombre.  I  was  breaststrok- 
ing,  lunging  towards  shore,  wounded  walrus,  white 
air  tube  dangling  on  side.  Jose  holding  me  with  one 
arm,  holding  my  mask  with  his  other  hand. 

Standing  in  waist-high  surf,  gasping  for  breath, 
shoulders  heaving,  heart  pounding,  shaking  off 
water  and  fear.  Not  listening  to  Jose's  voice  sooth- 
ing, advising.  I  was  thinking  about  the  rapture  of 
the  sea  deep  and  the  far-out  visions  and  the  clean 
unity,  and  of  the  sudden  panic  coming,  the  fear 
that  you  can't  go  back,  back  to  the  world  you  love 
to  leave,  and  thinking  of  the  fear  of  mushroom  rap- 
ture. Will  I  ever  get  back?  Panic.  Loss  of  control. 
Panic. 

I  had  had  my  daily  ration  of  expanded  con- 
sciousness and  was  glad  to  feel  dry  sand  underfoot. 
Jack  was  eager  to  take  over  the  diving.  He  stood 
casual,  almost  bored,  while  Jose  and  I  strapped  him 
in  the  metal  uniform.  He  didn't  seem  to  be  listening 


It  began  when  two  Los 
Angeles  doctors  published 
the  results  of  an  experi- 
mental therapy  program 
they  had  conducted  with 
110  patients — 


including  Cary  Grant,  his 
wife  Betsy  Drake  and  sev- 
eral more  Hollywood  actors, 
publicists,  and  writers.  The 
reaction  to  the  paper  was 
explosive. 


Joe  Hyams,  Hollywood  cor- 
respondent for  the  New 
York  Herald  Tribune,  who 
did  one  of  the  first  inter- 
views with  Cary  Grant 
about  LSD  therapy,  told  me 
recently,  "After  my  series 
came  out,  the  phone  began 
to  ring  wildly.  Psychiatrists 
called,  complaining  their 
patients  were  now  begging 
them  for  LSD.  Every  actor 
in  town  under  analysis 
wanted  it.  In  all,  I  got  close 
to  eight  hundred  letters." 


Cary  Grant  today  is  still 
eager  to  offer  this  testi- 
mony to  the  efficacy  of  the 
drug:  "If  I  drop  dead 
within  the  next  ten  years, 
I  will  have  enjoyed  more 
living  in  the  latter  part  of 
my  life  than  most  people 
ever  know." 


When  I  asked  Grant  if  he 
thought  his  association  with 
the  drug  had  helped  or 
hindered  its  development, 
he  said  brusquely,  "A  Holly- 
wood name  might  have  cre- 
ated some  resistance,  but 
many  people  will  seek  any 
reason  to  oppose  a  new 
idea,  you  know." 


58  00    The  Revelation  Is  Awe-Full 


More  and  more  of  the  Cali- 
fornia intelligentsia  began 
to  push  the  drug. 


From  his  houseboat  in 
Sausalito,  philosopher  Alan 
Watts  spoke  of  a  society 
where  LSD  pills  would  be 
taken  two  or  three  times  a 
year,  like  aspirin,  to  relieve 
temporary  emotional  head- 
aches. 


Aldous  Huxley  wrote  glow- 
ingly of  his  mystical  LSD 
flights. 


Poet  Allen  Ginsberg  urged 
that  the  drug  be  given  to 
Khrushchev  and  Kennedy 
in  the  interests  of  world 
peace. 

00 


to  my  words  of  advice  and  when  Jose  nodded  to 
him  he  pulled  on  the  mask  and  stuck  in  the  mouth- 
piece and  waded  out  knee-,  waist-,  shoulder-high 
and  sank  out  of  sight.  I  stood  on  the  shore  watching 
the  two  lines  of  bubbles  moving  out  into  the  bay. 
Jack  was  gone,  dropped  down  and  out  of  the  world 
and  I  was  standing  there,  scared,  worried,  stuck  on 
the  sandy  shelf  of  mind  but  Jack  was  gone  beyond 
it  all. 

Four  Mexican  kids  had  followed  the  divers'  trail 
across  the  bay.  They  had  goggles  but  no  tank  and 
kept  bobbing  under  for  a  breath-length  to  watch 
the  underwater  action.  I  called  one  of  them  back  to 
shore  and  asked  him  how  it  was  going  with  el  niho. 
White  teeth  grin.  He  had  seen  my  panic.  Perfecto, 
Senor. 

I  walked  over  to  the  beach-bar  and  ordered  a 
planters  punch  and  sat  the  half -hour  out  watching 
the  bubbles  and  the  boys  moving  around  the  bay 
out  beyond  the  fishing  boats  and  then  circling  back, 
and  finally  Jack's  black  head  bobbed  up  and  he 
scoffed  through  the  shallow  water  bent  over  a  little 
from  the  heavy  tank  still  looking  bored  but  also 
cocky  proud.  The  natural,  non-conceptual  confi- 
dence of  the  young.  The  psychedelic  generation. 

We  walked  back  to  the  diving  shop  and  Jose 
started  making  out  the  bill.  The  owner  asked  him  in 
Spanish  how  it  had  gone  and  Jose  grinned  and  said 
muy  bien.  El  hijo  es  mucho  mas  mejor  que  el 
padre.  Jack  looked  at  me  and  I  winked  and  he 
creased  his  face  in  a  big  grin  and  that  was  the 
diving  trip. 


THE  TAMING  POWER  OF  THE  SMALL 

Has  success. 

Dense  clouds,  no  rain  from  our 
western  region. 

(IChing) 


Th 


I— I 

PC 
H 


The  Sacrament  Solves  No  Problems: 

H 
ffl 
W 

6 

g 

o 

Guide:  aldous  huxley  ><; 

Oracle:  XXXVI 
Darkening  of  the  light 


October  1960 


The  Receptive,  Earth 


The  Clinging,  Fire 


The  light  has  sunk  into  the  earth: 

The  image  of  darkening  of  the  light. 

Thus  does  the  superior  man  live  with  the  great 

mass: 
He  veils  his  light,  yet  still  shines. 

(IChing) 


TRIP  4 


Lease: 

Witnesseth  that  for  and  in 
consideration  of  the  pay- 
ment of  the  rents  and  the 
performance  of  the  cove- 
nants 


said  parties  of  the  first  part 
do  hereby  lease,  demise 
and  let  unto  the  said  parties 
of  the  second  part 


that  certain  three-story 
dwelling  house  and  appur- 
tenance?*. .  .  . 

00 


From  The  Saturday  Evening 
Post: 

Leary  returned  to  Harvard 
longing  to  journey  still  fur- 
ther beyond  his  mind  and 
his  ardor  infected  Alpert, 
another  clinical  psycholo- 
gist and  McClelland  pro- 
tege. 

00 


We  got  back  to  the  East  Coast  early  September  and 
located  in  Newton  Center.  The  house  was  big.  A 
three-story  baronial  mansion  on  a  hill  with  trees 
and  lawns  and  a  three-car  garage  and  a  garden 
house  and  185  stone  steps  leading  up  to  the  front 
door.  Inside  it  were  books  and  woodwork  and  thick 
rugs  and  metal-work  lamps  and  a  wide  staircase 
winding  up  from  the  entrance  hall. 

Took  a  couple  of  days  to  get  settled.  And  on  the 
third  day  I  drove  down  to  Newton  Corner  and 
crossed  to  Charlesbank  Road  and  along  the  curving 
river  towards  Cambridge.  At  this  point  the  Charles 
is  a  wide,  slow  stream.  On  the  other  side  a  Norman 
tower  sticks  up  from  the  trees,  and  down  aways  the 
bridge  on  the  Watertown  Road  loops  across  in 
three  arches,  simple  and  clean  like  Ponte  Santa 
Trinita,  reflected  in  the  water  below. 

After  a  while  the  river  swings  to  the  left  towards 
Cambridge  and  then  back  again  in  a  grand  slow 
sweep,  and  there  on  the  right  is  Soldier's  Field  and 
beyond  it  the  roofs  of  the  Harvard  Business  School, 
very  European  (Copenhagen,  mostly),  with  dozens 
of  little  chimneys  sticking  up,  and  over  to  the  left 
the  three  shiny  colored  domes— red,  green,  blue— 
and  the  Harvard  brick.  All  clear  like  color  slides.  I 
was  glad  to  be  back  and  glad  that  it  all  looked  so 
fresh  and  sharp.  Even  the  traffic  lights  seemed  to 
glisten,  gem  flashes,  red  and  green.  The  fact  that 
they  told  you  Stop  and  Go  was  incidental  to  what 
they  told  you  about  color  and  light.  I  was  still 
turned  on. 

My  office  was  in  the  Center  for  Personality  Re- 
search, Harvard  University.  The  house  was  named 
after  Morton  Prince,  one  of  the  first  American  psy- 
chologists to  recognize  alterations  in  consciousness 
as  a  critical  area  for  study.  In  the  days  when  psy- 
chologists were  gentlemen  scholars,  he  published 
60 


October  1960  00    61 


classic  works  on  unconscious  states,  coconscious 
states,  the  varieties  of  awareness  consequences,  and 
was  the  founder  of  the  Center  for  Personality  Re- 
search at  Harvard.  Today  he  would  be  considered  a 
far-out  scholar  with  his  curious  and  bold  interests 
in  multiple  personality,  hypnosis,  trances,  and 
visions.  It  was  somehow  most  natural  and  proper 
that  we  would  be  initiating  studies  into  altered 
states  of  consciousness  in  Morton  Prince  House. 

The  precedent  for  our  psychedelic  research  did 
not  begin  with  Morton  Prince,  however,  but  traced 
back  to  the  turn  of  the  century,  to  that  most 
venerable  and  greatest  of  American  psychologists, 
William  James,  who  had  mystic  experiences  using 
nitrous  oxide  and  saw  God  and  scandalized  people 
by  running  drug  parties  in  Boston's  stuffy  Back 
Bay. 

After  Morton  Prince  and  William  James,  the 
genealogical  line  of  consciousness  expansion  re- 
search at  Harvard  was  continued  by  another  giant 
in  the  history  of  psychology:  Harry  A.  Murray  and 
his  visionary  scene  of  green  shirts,  white  whales, 
Freud- Jung-Melville. 

When  Harry  Murray  retired  and  moved  his  office 
to  a  house  next  door  and  nailed  his  whale  emblem 
over  the  threshold,  a  new  director  came  into  the 
Center.  David  C.  McClelland  is  a  non-visionary 
Quaker,  a  Protestant-ethic  man,  intelligent,  tall, 
puritan,  dedicated  to  external  achievement. 

Professor  McClelland  had  visited  the  villa  in 
Cuernavaca  the  week  after  I  took  the  magic  mush- 
rooms, and  was  shocked  and  grumpy  when  I  told 
him  about  my  trip.  He  was  the  first  person  I  had 
wanted  to  try  the  mushrooms,  and  his  instinctive 
withdrawal  jolted  me. 

The  Quakers  were  founded  by  a  flipped-out 
hallucinating  visionary  named  George  Fox,  who 
turned-on  and  dropped-out  and  spent  six  years  in 
prison  for  passing  on  the  same  message  I  got  from 
the  Aztec  plant.  I  couldn't  understand  then  why 
any  psychologist,  especially  a  member  of  a  mystic 
sect  like  the  Quakers,  wouldn't  rush  to  have  the 
experience. 

When  I  opened  the  front  door  of  Harvard's 
Center  for  Personality  Research,  there  in  the  library 


From  The  Varieties  of  Reli- 
gious Experience  by  Wil- 
liam James: 

Our  normal  waking  con- 
sciousness parted  from  the 
filmiest  of  screens,  there 
lie  potential  forms  of  con- 
sciousness entirely  differ- 
ent. 


No  account  of  the  universe 
in  its  totality  can  be  final 
which  leaves  these  other 
forms  of  consciousness 
quite  disregarded. 


62  00   The  Sacrament  Solves  No  Problems 


How  to  regard  them  is  the 
question — for  they  are  so 
discontinuous  with  ordinary 
consciousness. 


Looking  back  on  my  own 
(drug)  experiences,  they  all 
converge  towards  a  kind  of 
insight  to  which  I  cannot 
help  ascribing  some  meta- 
physical significance. 


were  two  bright  graduate  students,  George  and 
Mike.  They  came  to  my  office  and  began  telling  me 
right  away  about  their  summer  research  and  then  I 
began  telling  them  about  the  mushrooms.  This  was 
nothing  new  to  them.  George  had  spent  several 
months  running  mescaline  experiments  the  year 
before  and  used  to  drop  into  my  office  to  tell  me 
about  the  visions  and  insights  and  perceptual  fire- 
works. I  used  to  listen  politely  but  not  caring.  I  had 
no  concepts,  no  mental  hooks  on  which  to  hang  his 
words,  and  no  intuitive  electricity  to  get  turned-on. 
Like  every  educated  savage,  I  automatically  dis- 
credited anything  that  I  didn't  understand. 

Now  it  was  different.  The  visionary  flash  had 
come  and  George  had  seen  and  felt  it  too  and  we 
leaned  forward  talking  fast  and  drugging  each 
other  with  vision  talk.  Mike  was  swept  into  the 
spell  too.  He  had  been  wanting  George  to  give  him 
mescaline  for  several  months  but  they  never  got 
around  to  it.  He  was  eager  to  start.  What  a  great 
research  tool! 

The  word  research  stopped  me.  Psychiatric  sci- 
ence. Good  God,  here  we  go  again.  Using  drugs  to 
do  something  to  somebody  else.  Drug  them.  Then 
test  the  changes.  Measuring  the  impact  of  chemi- 
cals on  the  mind.  It  was  this  sort  of  manipulatory 
business  that  had  repelled  me  from  experimental 
drug  research  in  the  past. 


Those  who  have  ears  to 
hear,  let  them  hear:  To  me 
the  living  sense  of  its  reality 
only  comes  in  the  artificial 
mystic  state  of  mind. 

00 


A  Ring  of  Power  looks  after  itself,  Frodo.  It  may 
slip  off  treacherously,  but  its  keeper  never  aban- 
dons it.  At  most  he  plays  with  the  idea  of  handing  it 
on  to  someone  else's  care— and  that  only  at  an  early 
stage,  when  it  first  begins  to  grip.  But  as  far  as  I 
know,  Bilbo  alone  in  history  has  ever  gone  beyond 
playing,  and  really  done  it.  He  needed  all  my  help, 
too.  And  even  so  he  would  never  have  just  forsaken 
it,  or  cast  it  aside.  It  was  not  Gollum,  Frodo,  but 
the  Ring  itself  that  decided  things.  The  Ring 
left  him.  ( The  Lord  of  the  Rings ) 

For  thousands  of  years  men  have  used  any 
chemicals  they  could  get  their  hands  on  to  change 
consciousness  and  for  fifty  years  psychologists  have 
been  developing  methods  including  probing  peo- 


October  1960  00    63 


pie's  minds,  getting  behind  the  screens  and  pro- 
tections which  we  all  maintain.  What  does  the 
patient  really  think?  What  does  he  really  feel? 
Psychoanalysis,  the  study  of  dreams.  Slips  of  the 
tongue.  Tests  of  fantasy  expression  in  which  the 
subject  unwittingly  gives  away  his  secret  inclina- 
tions. It  was  natural  that  men  would  use  mescaline 
and  LSD  to  get  high  and  it  was  also  natural  that 
psychologists  would  see  mescaline  and  LSD  as  new 
manipulatory  instruments  for  cutting  through  de- 
fenses and  exposing  inner  feelings.  New  ways  of 
knocking  out  the  social  man  and  laying  bare  the 
sick,  evil  man  within. 

To  interpret  the  visionary  experience  laymen  use 
the  language  of  ecstasy,  and  psychiatrists  use  the 
language  which  is  familiar  and  natural  to  them— 
the  dialect  of  diagnosis.  Now  the  curious  thing 
about  psychiatric  language  is  that  it's  almost  com- 
pletely negative,  a  pompous,  gloomy  lexicon  of 
troubles,  symptoms,  abnormalities,  eccentricities. 

To  read  through  the  psychiatric  literature  is  to 
descend  into  the  modern  Freudian  Inferno— prim, 
prudish  catalogue  of  anguish  and  conflict. 

The  psychiatric  trip  is  worried  and  nervous. 
Revelation  is  a  dirty  word.  When  they  observe 
mystical  reactions  to  the  southern  vegetables,  psy- 
chiatrists employ  the  labels  of  pathology.  Peyote 
and  mescaline  and  LSD  produce  thoughts  and 
behavior  which  are  not  conventionally  normal. 
These  events  are  called  abnormal.  Very  unconven- 
tional. Therefore  very  abnormal!  Psychotic! 

The  psychiatrists  are  hung  up  on  psychosis, 
whatever  that  is.  And  so  the  new  consciousness- 
expanding  substances  in  i960  were  classed  as 
psychotomimetic.  Psychiatrists  thought  that  LSD 
causes  normal  people  to  act  like  psychotics!  And 
glorious  mescaline  too!  And  the  mushroom! 

So  when  I  heard  Mike  asking  me  about  research 
plans  for  the  mushrooms,  my  first  reaction  was,  oh, 
no,  baby!  No!  No!  No!  No  selecting  of  subjects.  No 
testing  them  before  and  after.  No  explaining  away 
the  mushroom  effect  in  terms  of  my  favorite  vari- 
ables or  your  favorite  variables.  No  chemical  pro- 
cedures ripping  away  people's  protections  and 
watching  them  deal  with  the  sudden  confrontation 


Psychiatric  Report: 

The  volunteers  selected 
were  told  only  that  they 
might  receive  a  substance 
which  would  produce  tem- 
porary changes  in  percep- 
tion and  bodily  feelings  or 
an  inert  substance. 


A  baseline  EEG,  mental 
status  and  checklist  of 
symptoms  was  completed 
before  the  drug  was  ad- 
ministered. 


64  00    The  Sacrament  Solves  No  Problems 


Results  in  visual  hallucina- 
tions, illusions,  a  form  of 
hyperacusis,  body  image 
distortions,  .  .  . 


.  .  .  euphoria,  anxiety,  de- 
pression, flight  of  ideas, 
clang  associations,  inabil- 
ity to  abstract. 


A  subject  in  response  to 
the  proverb,  people  in  glass 
houses  shouldn't  throw 
stones,  said  before  the 
drug. 


of  the  real-reality.  And  then  calling  them  diagnostic 
names.  Like  psychotic.  No  sir. 

Well,  Mike,  it  depends  what  you  mean  by  re- 
search. Td  love  to  take  the  mushrooms  again.  And 
I'd  like  to  give  them  to  my  friends  and  have  them 
see  what  I  saw.  In  fact  I'd  be  glad  to  spend  the  rest 
of  my  life  teaching  people  how  to  use  them.  And 
I'd  like  everyone  who  takes  the  mushrooms  to  write 
down  afterwards  what  he  saw  and  felt  and  visioned 
and  how  the  whole  scene  affected  his  life. 

George  and  Mike  were  listening  and  nodding 
and  swinging  along  with  this  and  began  to  throw  in 
ideas.  Why  not  start  a  research  like  this.  There 
would  be  no  scientists  vs.  people-studied  in  our 
research.  Everyone  would  take  turns  taking  the 
mushrooms  and  observing  and  keeping  careful  rec- 
ords of  how  we  change  and  what  we  experience. 
And  we'd  all  meet  together  to  plan  the  sessions  and 
there  would  be  no  withholding  of  information  or 
results,  it  would  all  be  out  on  the  table  for  everyone 
to  know.  No  calling  people  names.  No  diagnosing. 
And  we  would  try  to  get  a  variety  of  people  in- 
volved in  the  group.  Not  just  psychologists  and 
behavioral  scientists  but  writers  and  poets  and 
housewives  and  cab  drivers. 

I  was  particularly  pleased  with  the  collaborative, 
no-leader  aspect  of  the  plan.  I  wanted  to  avoid 
selecting  the  members  of  the  mushroom  research 
group.  I  told  George  and  Mike  that  they  knew 
more  people  around  the  university  and  the  town  of 
Cambridge  than  I  did  and  that  they  should  do  the 
selecting  of  collaborators  to  take  the  mushrooms 
with  us.  George  and  Mike  said  sure  and  began  talk- 
ing together  excitedly  throwing  names  back  and 
forth.  Plenty  of  spirit  around. 

Then  George  began  to  talk  about  the  literature 
on  visionary  states  and  asked  me  if  I  had  read 
Aldous  Huxley's  books  on  mescaline,  Doors  to  Per- 
ception and  Heaven  and  Hell,  and  when  I  said  I 
hadn't  he  rushed  down  the  hall  to  his  office  and 
brought  them  back.  Small,  thin  rectangles.  I  stuck 
them  in  my  jacket  pockets. 

The  final  issue  was  the  big  one.  Where  would  we 
get  the  mushrooms?  Someone  had  told  me  that  the 
Public  Health  Service  had  succeeded  in  synthe- 


October  1960  00    65 


sizing  the  mushrooms  and  I  said  I'd  write  to  Wash- 
ington and  try  to  check  on  that  lead.  Gerhart  back 
in  Mexico  had  told  me  that  he'd  continue  the  search 
for  Juana  the  witch  and  if  he  found  her  he'd  get  a 
large  supply  and  send  some  up  to  me.  And  Frank 
Barron  back  in  Berkeley  had  told  me  that  the 
people  at  the  University  of  Mexico  had  cultivated 
mushrooms  and  maybe  we  could  get  some  from 
them. 

That  night  I  read  Huxley.  And  then  I  read  those 
two  books  again.  And  again.  It  was  all  there.  All  my 
vision.  And  more  too.  Huxley  had  taken  mescaline 
in  a  garden  and  shucked  off  the  mind  and 
awakened  to  eternity. 


You  shouldn't  point  out 
faults  in  others  that  might 
exist  in  yourself.  After  the 
drug  he  said,  At  who?  That 
depends  on  a  lot  of  things. 


About  a  week  later  someone  at  a  party  told  me 
that  Aldous  Huxley  was  spending  the  fall  in  town 
and  that  sounded  like  a  good  omen,  so  I  sat  down 
and  wrote  him  a  letter. 

Two  days  later,  during  one  of  our  planning  con- 
ferences, Mr.  Huxley  telephoned  to  say  he  was 
interested  and  lunch  was  arranged. 

Aldous  Huxley  was  staying  in  a  new  M.I.T. 
apartment  overlooking  the  Charles  River.  He  an- 
swered the  bell— tall,  pale,  frail— joined  me,  and 
we  drove  to  the  Harvard  Faculty  Club.  He  read  the 
menu  slowly  through  his  magnifying  glass.  I  asked 
him  if  he  wanted  soup  and  he  asked  what  kind  and 
I  looked  at  the  menu  and  it  was  mushroom  soup  so 
we  laughed  and  we  had  mushrooms  for  lunch. 

Aldous  Huxley:  stooped,  towering,  gray  Buddha. 
A  wise  and  good  man.  Head  like  a  multi-lingual 
encyclopedia.  Voice  elegant  and  chuckling  except 
when  the  pitch  rose  in  momentary  amused  indig- 
nation about  over-population  or  the  pomposity  of 
psychiatrists. 

We  talked  about  how  to  study  and  use  the 
consciousness-expanding  drugs  and  we  clicked 
along  agreeably  on  the  do's  and  the  not-to-do's.  We 
would  avoid  the  behaviorist  approach  to  others' 
awareness.  Avoid  labeling  or  depersonalizing  the 
subject.  We  should  not  impose  our  own  jargon  or 
our  own  experimental  games  on  others.  We  were 
not  out  to  discover  new  laws,  which  is  to  say,  to 
discover  the  redundant  implications  of  our   own 


Autonomic  responses,  pu- 
pillary dilation,  nausea,  diz- 
ziness, flushing,  abdominal 
complaints,  blood  pressure, 
and  pulse.  .  .  . 


Psilocybin,  LSD,  and  mes- 
caline are  extremely  potent 
agents  capable  of  produc- 
ing acute  psychotic  be- 
havior in  many  individuals. 


66  00    The  Sacrament  Solves  No  Problems 


Depression  with  the  ever 
present  risk  of  suicide  may 
develop  during  or  after 
their  administration. 


The  use  of  hallucinogens 
should  be  restricted  to  re- 
search in  a  hospital  setting. 

00 


Donald  Louria,  M.D.: 

Gram  for  gram,  ingestion 
for  ingestion,  LSD  is  far 
more  dangerous  than  her- 
oin. 

00 


premises.  We  were  not  to  be  limited  by  the  patho- 
logical point  of  view.  We  were  not  to  interpret 
ecstasy  as  mania,  or  calm  serenity  as  catatonia;  we 
were  not  to  diagnose  Buddha  as  a  detached 
schizoid;  nor  Christ  as  an  exhibitionistic  masochist; 
nor  the  mystic  experience  as  a  symptom;  nor  the 
visionary  state  as  a  model  psychosis.  Aldous  Huxley 
chuckling  away  with  compassionate  humor  at  hu- 
man folly. 

And  with  such  erudition!  Moving  back  and  forth 
in  history,  quoting  the  mystics.  Wordsworth.  Ploti- 
nus.  The  Areopagite.  William  James.  Ranging  from 
the  esoteric  past,  back  to  the  biochemical  present: 
Humphrey  Osmond  curing  alcoholics  in  Saskatche- 
wan with  LSD;  Keith  Ditman's  plans  to  clean  out 
Skid  Row  in  Los  Angeles  with  LSD;  Roger  Heim 
taking  his  bag  of  Mexican  mushrooms  to  the  Pari- 
sian chemists  who  couldn't  isolate  the  active  ingre- 
dient, and  then  going  to  Albert  Hoffman  the  great 
Swiss,  who  did  it  and  called  it  psilocybin.  They  had 
sent  the  pills  back  to  the  curandera  in  Oaxaca  state 
and  she  tried  them  and  had  divinatory  visions  and 
was  happy  that  her  practice  could  now  be  year- 
round  and  not  restricted  to  the  three  rainy  mush- 
room months. 

Aldous  Huxley  was  shrewdly  aware  of  the  politi- 
cal complications  and  the  expected  opposition  from 
the  Murugans,  the  name  he  gave  to  power  people 
in  his  novel,  Island. 

"Dope  .  .  .  Murugan  was  telling  me  about  the 
fungi  that  are  used  here  as  a  source  of  dope. 

"What's  in  a  name?  .  .  .  Answer,  practically 
everything.  Murugan  calls  it  dope  and  feels  about  it 
all  the  disapproval  that,  by  conditioned  reflex,  the 
dirty  word  evokes.  We  on  the  contrary,  give  the 
stuff  good  names— the  moksha  medicine,  the  reality 
revealer,  the  truth-and-beauty  pill.  And  we  know, 
by  direct  experience,  that  the  good  names  are  de- 
served. Whereas  our  young  friend  here  has  no 
firsthand  knowledge  of  the  stuff  and  can't  be  per- 
suaded even  to  give  it  a  try.  For  him  it's  dope  and 
dope  is  something  that,  by  definition,  no  decent 
person  ever  indulges  in." 

Aldous  Huxley  advised  and  counseled  and  joked 
and  told  stories  and  we  listened  and  our  research 


October  1960  00    67 


project  was  shaped  accordingly.  Huxley  offered  to 
sit  in  on  our  planning  meetings  and  was  ready  to 
take  mushrooms  with  us  when  the  research  was 
under  way. 

From  these  meetings  grew  the  design  for  a  natu- 
ralistic pilot  study,  in  which  the  subjects  would  be 
treated  like  astronauts— carefully  prepared,  briefed 
with  all  available  facts,  and  then  expected  to  run 
their  own  spacecraft,  make  their  own  observations, 
and  report  back  to  ground  control.  Our  subjects 
were  not  passive  patients  but  hero-explorers. 

During  the  weeks  of  October  and  November  of 
i960  there  were  many  meetings  to  plan  the  re- 
search. Aldous  Huxley  would  come  and  listen  and 
then  close  his  eyes  and  detach  himself  from  the 
scene  and  go  into  his  controlled  meditation  trance, 
which  was  unnerving  to  some  of  the  Harvard 
people  who  equate  consciousness  with  talk,  and 
then  he  would  open  his  eyes  and  make  a  diamond- 
pure  comment. 

We  talked  about  having  tape  recordings  and 
music  and  reproductions  of  paintings  and  mystical 
quotations,  and  people  volunteered  to  round  up  the 
props  and  there  was  only  one  thing  wrong  with  the 
meetings  and  that  was  that  it  was  all  talk  and  no 
action.  That  is,  no  mushrooms.  It  was  like  sitting 
around  planning  and  talking  about  sex:  we  were  all 
hungry  and  impatient  for  the  mushrooms  to  arrive. 
We  hoped  that  they  would  come  that  week  and  if 
so  we'd  have  the  first  session  on  Sunday. 

By  Friday  they  hadn't  come  and  we  made  careful 
plans  to  pick  up  the  package  at  the  post  office  if  it 
came  on  Saturday.  I  didn't  realize  until  later  how 
eager  and  anxious  people  were.  The  tension  was 
mounting  and  it  kept  mounting  Saturday  morning 
until  George  phoned  everyone  and  said  that  they 
weren't  at  the  post  office,  and  the  first  session  was 
postponed  a  week.  Big  letdown  and  then  the  ten- 
sion started  up  again. 

On  Wednesday  afternoon  I  came  into  the  office 
and  my  secretary  Clair  said,  Oh,  by  the  way,  the 
mushrooms  just  arrived.  Where  are  they?  George 
and  Mike  took  them  and  are  keeping  the  package  in 
their  office.  I  walked  down  the  hall  to  their  office 


From  the  Boston  Record 
American  Mailbag: 

Your  editorial,  Controlling 
LSD,  was  excellent,  but  it 
did  not  go  far  enough. 
Walter  Winchell,  in  your 
paper  recently,  made  a 
statement  which  might  do 
more  to  discourage  its  use. 
He  stated  emphatically  that 
LSD  can  make  a  person 
blind. 

00 


From  the  Washington  Eve- 
ning Star: 

Sen.  Robert  F.  Kennedy, 
D-N.Y.,  today  rapped  former 
Harvard  University  psychol- 
ogist Timothy  Leary  for  not 
sufficiently  stressing  the 
dangers  of  LSD  in  his 
speaking  tours. 


The  impression  that  the 
vision-producing  drug  can 
be  used  indiscriminately 
"has  damaged  the  minds  of 
many  of  our  young  people," 
Kennedy  said. 

00 


68  00    The  Sacrament  Solves  No  Problems 


Dr.     Robert    in     Island    by 
Aldous  Huxley. 

"Which  brings  me  back  to 
those     American     doctors. 


but  they  were  gone  and  the  mushrooms  were  no- 
where to  be  found.  This  gave  me  a  funny  feeling  of 
frustration.  The  mushrooms  had  arrived  but  I 
couldn't  see  them.  Out  of  my  hands,  out  of  my 
control. 

The  next  morning  Mike  came  by  my  office  to  chat 
about  the  session  coming  up  that  weekend.  He 
didn't  mention  that  the  mushrooms  had  arrived.  I 
said,  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  understand  that  the  pack- 
age arrived  from  Sandoz.  Mike  took  a  step  back- 
ward and  blinked.  Oh,  yes,  they  came  yesterday. 

Where  are  they  now? 

His  face  darkened  and  took  on  a  pinched  expres- 
sion. 

Well  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  We,  George  and  I  .  .  .  took 
them.  We  didn't  want  to  leave  them  around. 

He  was  embarrassed,  half  defiant.  I  felt  irritated. 


"Three  of  them  were  psy- 
chiatrists, and  one  of  the 
psychiatrists  smoked  cigars 
without  stopping  and  had  a 
German  accent.  ...  I 
never  heard  anything  like 
it. 


Gandalf  looked  again  very  hard  at  Bilbo,  and  there 
was  a  gleam  in  his  eye.  I  think,  Bilbo,  he  said 
quietly,  I  should  leave  it  behind.  Dont  you  want  to? 
Well  yes— and  no.  Now  it  comes  to  it,  I  don't  like 
parting  with  it  at  all,  I  may  say.  And  I  dont  really 
see  why  I  should.  Why  do  you  want  me  to?  he 
asked,  and  a  curious  change  came  over  his  voice.  It 
was  sharp  with  suspicion  and  annoyance.  You  are 
always  badgering  me  about  my  ring.  (The  Lord  of 
the  Rings ) 


".  .  .  the  way  they  treat 
people  with  neurotic  symp- 
toms .  .  .  they  never  attack 
on  all  the  fronts;  they  only 
attack  on  about  half  of  one 
front. 


I'd  like  to  look  at  them. 

He  hesitated  and  then  said,  Okay. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  returned  with  a  brown 
cardboard  box.  There  were  four  small  gray  pill- 
boxes inside  labeled  PS  39,  and  printed  on  the 
label,  not  to  be  sold,  for  research  investigation. 
There  was  a  plastic  stopper  and  a  wad  of  cotton  in 
the  neck  of  the  little  brown  bottle  and  then  I  shook 
out  in  my  hand  the  round  pink  pills,  glistening  like 
pearls  on  my  hand.  There  they  were.  Keys  to  the 
doors  to  perception.  I  poured  them  back  in  the 
bottle  and  stuffed  the  bottle  back  in  the  box  and 
said,  let's  keep  them  here  in  my  filing  cabinet.  I  was 
sensitive  about  control  of  the  pills  and  felt  better 
having  them  in  my  office.  In  my  power.  Not  that  I 
had  any  intention  of  using  them  unilaterally. 


October  1960  00    69 


That  evening  I  had  a  date  with  a  girl  named  Joan 
and  instead  of  going  to  the  city  to  dinner  I  took  her 
home  because  I  had  promised  to  buy  favors  and 
decorations  for  a  big  Halloween  party  which  my 
daughter  was  giving  the  next  night.  After  we 
shopped  and  came  home  I  filled  the  ice- cooler  and 
brought  a  bottle  of  whisky  and  soda  into  the  study 
and  we  sat  drinking  until  dinner,  and  every  time 
the  whisky  would  start  to  relax  me  the  kids  would 
get  into  a  quarrel  and  I'd  bound  out  to  stop  it,  or 
the  phone  would  ring  and  then  I'd  mix  another 
drink  to  quiet  down  again.  We  had  a  bottle  of 
Burgundy  with  the  steak  and  by  dinner's  end  I  was 
feeling  a  fine  alcohol  stupor. 

In  the  living  room  Joan  was  lying  in  front  of  the 
fire,  and  a  friend  Joe  O'Donell  had  come  in  and 
was  mixing  drinks  and  we  started  joking  and  laugh- 
ing at  O'Donell's  crazy  stories. 

Then  Rhona  and  Charlie  came  down  from  the 
third  floor  to  join  in  the  noise.  They  were  the  young 
couple  who  took  care  of  the  house,  pretty  little 
blonde  Rhona  and  big  happy  Charlie  finishing  his 
fourth  year  at  Boston  University. 

After  a  while  we  fell  to  talking  about  the  mush- 
rooms. Right  from  the  start  O'Donell  had  been 
amused  and  worldly  about  the  research.  This 
shocked  me.  He  was  a  scientist  and  serious  about 
studying  behavior  and  here  he  was  taking  a  casual 
attitude  towards  the  mushrooms.  The  hell  with  all 
this  phony  talk  and  measurement  business,  let's  get 
the  mushrooms  and  start  swinging. 

O'Donell  was  talking  along  this  way,  hard-boiled 
and  cynical  and  then  he  popped  the  question  that 
brought  me  up  short,  why  don't  we  have  some 
mushrooms  right  now?  Big  Charlie  had  been  hear- 
ing all  this  mushroom  talk  for  days  and  he  jumped 
at  this  suggestion.  Hey,  that's  a  great  idea.  Let's  try 
them  out  tonight  and  see  what  happens.  I  had  been 
lecturing  all  year  on  research  philosophy  and  ethics 
and  how  you  should  be  collaborative  and  not  use 
your  position  as  a  scientist  to  get  an  unfair  advan- 
tage and  about  sharing  information  and  sharing  the 
power  to  make  decisions  with  the  subjects.  And 
that  was  the  way  we  had  set  up  the  mushroom 
research.   Collaborative   all   the   way.   No   pulling 


"So  far  as  they  are  con- 
cerned, the  physical  fronts 
don't  exist  .  .  . 


"mind  abstracted  from  the 
body — that's  the  only  front 
they  attack  on. 


"And  not  even  on  the  whole 
of  that  front.  The  man  with 
the  cigar  kept  talking  about 
the  unconscious. 


70  00   The  Sacrament  Solves  No  Problems 


"But  the  only  unconscious 
they  ever  pay  attention  to  is 
the    negative    unconscious, 


"the  garbage  that  people 
have  tried  to  get  rid  of  by 
burying  it  in  the  basement. 


rank.  Everyone  taking  turns  at  giving  mushrooms 
and  taking  them.  Now  O'Donell's  suggestion  that 
we  take  the  pills  without  the  rest  of  the  team 
present  complicated  everything  I  had  been  saying 
and  the  agreement  we  had  made  with  the  rest  of 
the  group. 

Besides,  it  will  be  a  useful  pilot  study.  We  can 
try  out  a  small  dosage  and  see  what  happens  and 
pave  the  way  for  a  better  session  Sunday.  That's 
right,  said  big  Charlie,  we'll  be  guinea  pigs  for  the 
rest  of  them.  O'Donell  was  looking  at  me  coolly. 
Goddammit,  don't  be  so  square.  You'll  ruin  the 
whole  mushroom  business  if  you  try  to  make  it 
rigid  and  organized  and  scheduled.  In  life  you're 
either  spontaneous  or  you're  nothing. 

Spontaneous.  That  was  some  word.  About  two 
weeks  before,  I  had  been  standing  around  at  a 
cocktail  party  in  Middletown  and  composer  John 
Cage  walked  up  and  asked  if  I  wanted  to  try  his 
mushrooms  and  I  laughed  and  thought  it  was  a 
joke,  kidding  about  my  mushroom  obsession,  and  I 
said  sure  and  he  led  me  out  into  the  kitchen  and 
there  on  a  plate  were  some  sliced  and  broiled 
mushrooms,  delicious  with  butter  and  salt.  John 
told  me  about  the  fun  of  mushrooms— ordinary  non- 
trance  mushrooms  that  you  eat,  and  how  spon- 
taneity was  the  key.  You  could  go  to  a  forest  glade 
for  ten  days  in  a  row  and  not  see  a  mushroom  and 
then  on  that  eleventh  day  (or  it  might  be  the  first 
day  for  you )  there  they  are,  the  mushrooms,  push- 
ing up  through  the  soil  so  fast  you  can  see  them 
growing.  The  magnificent  intersection  in  space- 
time,  you  and  the  mushrooms.  And  you  have  to  be 
there  at  the  exact  hour  because  if  you're  a  few 
hours  late  then  you're  too  late  and  the  rot  has  set  in 
or  the  insects  have  started  eating  them.  It's  the 
spontaneity,  the  planless  meeting,  the  thing  you 
can't  push  or  hurry. 


"Not  a  single  word  about 
the  positive  unconscious. 
No  attempt  to  help  the  pa- 
tient to  open  himself  up  to 
the  life  force  or  the  Buddha 
nature. 


What  troubles  you?  Why  hesitate?  Why  is  your 
heart  oppressed  by  cowardice?  Why  do  you  lack  in 
courage  and  zeal  when  I  myself  do  prophesy  such 
good?  ( Inferno  III ) 

So   when   O'Donell   started   this   talk   that   I'm 
square  and  rigid  and  you  gotta  be  spontaneous, 


October  1960  00   71 


well,  it  stopped  me  short.  The  last  thing  in  the 
world  I  wanted  to  be  was  a  worrying  square  and 
the  last  thing  I  wanted  to  put  down  was  spon- 
taneity, so  I  worked  out  the  quick  compromise  in 
my  mind  that  I'd  give  them  the  mushrooms  and  let 
them  have  the  experience  but  I  wouldn't  take  them 
and  so  maybe  I'd  protect  my  contract  with  the 
absent  researchers. 


"And  no  attempt  even  to 
teach  him  to  be  a  little  more 
conscious  in  his  everyday 
life.  .  .  . 


For  by  your  arguments  you  have  disposed  my  heart 
to  such  an  eagerness  to  go  that  to  my  first  intent  I 
have  returned.  Lead  on  poet.  ( Inferno  III ) 

We  got  in  my  car  and  drove  down  to  Cambridge. 
I  parked  in  the  front  of  the  office  and  went  in  for 
the  pills.  I  came  back  out  to  the  car  carrying  a  glass 
of  water  and  it  was  agreed  that  everyone  take  two 
pills  right  away  in  the  car  so  that  the  high  could 
start  building  up  on  the  way  home.  The  literature 
on  mushroom  research  suggested  using  doses  of  8 
milligrams,  and  each  pill  was  2  milligrams,  so  that 
when  they  took  two  pills  they  were  taking  half  of  a 
normal  dose.  O'Donell  suggested  starting  slow  with 
half  a  dose  and  then  taking  the  rest  later  if  it  was 
going  well. 

There  was  no  reaction  in  the  car  and  after  we 
were  settled  in  front  of  the  fire,  O'Donell  and  big 
Charlie  and  Joan  took  two  more,  and  after  an  hour 
when  the  effect  was  working  hardly  at  all,  Joan 
took  two  more  and  Charlie  and  O'Donell  took  three 
more  and  I  took  two  myself.  The  dosage  for  the 
group  was  4  milligrams  for  me,  12  for  Joan  and  14 
for  Charlie  and  O'Donell.  After  about  an  hour  and 
fifteen  minutes  it  started  to  hit.  Charlie  started 
seeing  the  room  in  wonderful  technicolor  and  be- 
gan to  pace  up  and  down  through  the  house  raving 
about  the  beauty,  the  texture,  the  delicate  shades. 

His  wife  Rhona  was  watching  him  amused  and  a 
bit  scared.  Charlie  was  an  ex-football  guard,  not  an 
intellectual  person  and  never  sensitive  to  beauty. 
Here  he  was  moving  around  possessed,  chanting 
poetry  about  the  shadows  on  the  rug  and  the  subtle 
play  of  light  on  the  wall. 

I  was  lying  on  the  couch  feeling  good  from  the 
mood  and  the  two  pills  and  urging  Charlie  on  and 
laughing  happily   at   him.    Joan   came   over   and 


"These  people  just  leave  the 
unfortunate  neurotic  to  wal- 
low in  his  old  bad  habits  of 
never  being  all  there  in 
present  time.  The  whole 
thing  is  just  pure  idiocy! 


72  00   The  Sacrament  Solves  No  Problems 


"No,  the  man  with  the  cigar 
didn't  even  have  that  ex- 
cuse; he  was  as  clever  as 
clever  can  be.  So  it's  not 
idiocy.  .  .  . 


"It  must  be  something 
voluntary,  something  self- 
induced 


" — like  getting  drunk  or 
talking  yourself  into  believ- 
ing some  piece  of  foolish- 
ness because  it  happens  to 
be  in  the  Scriptures. 


curled  up  in  my  arms  and  said  she  felt  wonderful 
and  how  glad  she  was  that  I  was  there  to  take  care 
of  her. 

That  left  poor  O'Donell  alone.  In  the  molecular 
structure  of  the  psychedelic  group  the  lone  atom 
whirls  out  of  orbit.  He  was  the  only  one  not  going 
along  with  the  happy  spirit.  Face  black  with  frown 
and  wild-eye  look.  He  was  engaged  to  a  girl  in 
Seattle  and  missing  her  a  lot  and  sick  with  love  and 
loneliness  and  worry  about  the  romance  and  he 
seemed  to  be  falling  apart  under  the  mushrooms. 
Everything  gets  intensified— lover  or  loneliness. 
O'Donell  was  sitting  next  to  me  on  the  couch 
muttering  and  letting  out  weird  laughs.  He  turned 
to  us  and  smiled  an  evil  sort  of  smile  and  spit  on 
the  rug.  Now  under  any  circumstances  this  is  a 
show-stopper,  the  sudden  violent  act  smashing 
through  the  social  fabric.  But  under  mushrooms 
shock  comes  even  stronger.  Underwater  calm  and 
bliss  shattered  by  rude  spit. 

He  had  our  attention  all  right.  Our  eyes  were 
riveted  to  him  as  he  reached  down  and  took  a 
package  of  cigarettes.  He  began  to  shake  the  pack- 
age so  that  the  white  cylinders  fell  into  a  crazy  pile 
on  the  coffee  table.  Again,  like  the  spit,  it  was 
nothing  more  than  a  slight  eccentric  gesture  but 
sent  a  creepy  chill  running  through  me. 

O'Donell  turned  to  me  with  the  weird  grin. 
Order.  Order.  Down  with  order.  Again  I  felt  the 
chill.  Everything  was  going  so  mellow  and  smooth 
and  the  mushroom  peace  was  so  fine  that  I  was 
surprised  to  see  O'Donell  getting  worked  up.  Noth- 
ing seemed  important  at  the  moment  except  the 
loving  calm.  The  idea  that  people  worked  them- 
selves up,  worrying  about  things,  little  things  espe- 
cially, was  amusing.  O'Donell,  I  said,  it's  all  great.  I 
had  a  girl  and  he  didn't.  He  looked  at  me  strangely 
and  took  his  fist  and  pounded  it  in  his  hand  and 
kept  twisting  it  and  turning  his  fist  in  his  hand. 
Then  he  got  up  and  walked  to  the  bathroom  and  I 
could  hear  him  urinating. 

Joan  was  thirsty,  the  mushroom  thirst,  the  dry 
throat  of  visions,  so  I  went  to  the  kitchen.  Big 
Charlie  standing  by  the  refrigerator.  He  turned 
with  a  look  of  ecstasy.  Look  at  this  room.  See  those 


74  00   The  Sacrament  Solves  No  Problems 


"And  then  look  at  their  idea 
of  what's  normal.  Believe  it 
or  not,  a  normal  human  be- 
ing is  one  who  can  have  an 
orgasm  and  is  adjusted  to 
society.  .  .  . 


"And  then  what  about  the 
society  you're  supposed  to 
be  adjusted  to?  Is  it  a  mad 
society  or  a  sane  one?  And 
even  if  it's  pretty  sane,  is 
it  right  that  everybody 
should  be  completely  ad- 
justed to  it?" 

oo 


Harvard  Psychedelic  Re- 
search Project: 

RESEARCH  DESIGN  FOR  A 
STUDY  OF  CLINICAL  RE- 
ACTIONS TO  PSILOCYBIN 
ADMINISTERED  IN  SUP- 
PORTIVE ENVIRONMENT 


walls  glowing.  It's  seething  with  color.  And  look  at 
these  peaches.  Look  at  that  red  blush  on  the  yellow. 
They're  glowing.  They're  alive.  Dad-burn-it,  those 
peaches  are  alive.  They  can  talk. 

Rhona  walked  in  the  room  with  a  question  on  her 
face.  What's  going  on?  Your  husband  is  talking  to 
the  beautiful  peaches.  Laughter.  Charlie  looking 
down  at  Rhona.  Honey,  if  you  could  only  see  your- 
self. Why?  The  way  you  look.  So  fresh  and  wet. 
You  look  just  like  a  newborn  chicken  just  coming 
out  of  the  shell.  I  looked  at  her.  I  could  see  what  he 
meant.  Blonde-yellow  and  fresh  and  young.  Laugh- 
ter. Charlie  was  looking  at  me  with  wonder.  You're 
beautiful,  he  said.  Your  face  is  the  most  beautiful 
thing  I've  ever  seen.  Those  lines  in  your  face  and 
your  hair,  the  blue  and  gray,  looks  like  a  halo. 
Rhona  was  laughing  too.  She  started  out  the  door. 
Go  tell  Joan  that  Charlie  thinks  I'm  beautiful  and 
that  I  have  a  halo. 

Charlie  back  talking  to  the  beautiful  peach.  It 
was  a  great  peach  with  its  red  patch  and  the  fuzzy 
yellow  glow. 

Then  O'Donell  at  the  door.  Still  had  the  funny 
secret  smile.  Looked  down  at  a  kitchen  knife  on  the 
table.  Ah,  that's  what  we  need— a  knife.  Picked  it 
up  and  looked  around.  In  front  of  his  face  was  the 
kitchen  lamp  hung  from  a  long  cord.  O'Donell 
snarled  and  slashed  at  the  cord  with  the  knife. 
Horror  and  violence  in  paradise.  O'Donell,  for 
God's  sake,  behave.  He  laughed.  Behave.  That's 
what  you  want  me  to  do.  Behave.  Be  good. 

O'Donell  walked  around  the  table  towards 
Charlie  with  the  knife  in  his  hand.  Some  scene. 
Charlie's  face  was  a  picture.  Disbelief.  Fright. 
O'Donell,  for  God's  sake,  put  that  knife  down.  You 
scare  me  waving  that  knife  at  me.  O'Donell 
laughed.  That's  what  we  need.  Knives.  Fear.  Better 
than  order.  Threw  the  knife  on  the  table.  Big  clatter 
noise. 

I  walked  back  out  to  the  fire.  Joan  put  her  head 
in  my  lap.  I  missed  you.  Great  abiding  peace  sitting 
close  together.  The  good  old  love  pill.  No  talk. 
Firewatching.  Noise  behind  us.  Big  Charlie  and 
O'Donell.  Hey.  Charlie  and  I  want  more  pills.  The 
two  of  them  looked  so  worried.  They  want.  Funny 


October  1960  00    75 


notion.  To  want.  Who  wants  anything  except  peace 
and  love.  They  want  more  pills. 

Also  the  demand  annoyed  me.  And  the  old  power 
thing.  I  had  two  pills  in  me  and  was  happy.  They 
had  seven  in  them  and  wanted  more. 

Look.  It's  two-thirty.  The  party  is  going  great. 
Why  not  ride  with  it?  Enjoy  it.  Don't  worry  about 
pills.  Does  it  really  matter?  Do  the  pills  really 
matter? 


I  PURPOSES  OF  RE- 
SEARCH 

This  investigation  sets  out 
to  determine  the  factors — 
personal,  social — which  pro- 
duce optimally  positive  re- 
actions to  psilocybin.  "Posi- 
tive reaction"  in  this  study 
is  defined  as: 


One  must  not  unresistingly  let  himself  be  swept 
along  by  unfavorable  circumstances,  not  permit  his 
steadfastness  to  be  shaken.  He  can  avoid  this  by 
maintaining  his  inner  light,  while  remaining  out- 
wardly yielding  and  tractable.  With  this  attitude 
he  can  overcome  even  the  greatest  adversities. 
(IChingXXXVI) 


Pleasant,  ecstatic,  non-anx- 
ious experience 


Charlie  sent  me  his  eye  and  looked  sheepish. 
Yeah,  you're  right.  It's  late  and  why  worry.  Charlie 
walked  off.  I'm  going  to  look  out  the  window  and 
read  those  lights,  he  said. 

But  O'Donell  didn't  move.  He  stood  lurching 
above  me.  His  face  was  twisted  with  rage.  You've 
got  those  pills  and  I  want  them.  Are  you  going  to 
give  them  to  me  or  do  I  have  to  start  trouble. 
Control. 

His  face  scared  me.  Animal  leer.  His  lips  drawn 
back  and  his  teeth  were  wolf  fangs.  Trying  his  best 
to  look  fierce.  He  was  succeeding.  Looked  fierce.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  never  seen  anyone  in  my  life 
so  dangerous.  Same  time,  made  me  laugh.  How 
could  anyone  get  so  upset,  get  so  worried.  Get  so 
worked  up  about  anything  as  inconsequential  as  a 
few  more  pills.  Did  it  matter?  Did  anything  matter 
except  peace  and  love.  O'Donell,  for  God's  sake, 
relax.  Swing  with  it. 

The  leer.  Bared  fangs.  Face  wolfish  and  the  devil. 
Voice  low  and  ominous.  I'm  going  to  have  those 
pills  or  there'll  be  trouble. 

I  laughed.  Threats.  Pills.  Trouble.  What  words. 
Those  aren't  mushroom  words.  Felt  strong  because 
I  felt  so  moral.  He  was  foolish  to  want  and  need 
and  suffer  and  threaten.  Smart,  wise,  good  me. 

O'Donell  gave  me  a  one  last  snarling  look  and 


Broadening  of  awareness 


Increased  insight 


An  additional  aim  of  the 
study  is  to  determine  if  the 
reactions  to  psilocybin 
(positive  or  negative)  are 
enduring. 


76  00   The  Sacrament  Solves  No  Problems 


II     PROCEDURE  OF  AD- 
MINISTRATION 

This  study  is  guided  by  a 
set  of  ethical  and  interper- 
sonal principles  which 
stress  collaboration,  open- 
ness, humanistic  inter- 
change between  researcher 
and  subjects.  These  prin- 
ciples lead  to  the  following 
operations: 


1.  Participants  whenever 
possible  will  alternate  roles 
of  observer  and  subject. 


2.  Participants  will  be  given 
all  available  information 
about  the  drug  and  its  ef- 
fects before  the  experiment. 
We  will  attempt  to  avoid  an 
atmosphere  of  mystery  and 
secret  experimentation. 


turned  on  his  heel  and  went  upstairs  to  bed.  Glad 
to  see  him  go.  Done  O'Donell. 

Charlie  paced  back  and  kept  up  his  funny  raving 
about  the  beauty.  He  had  changed.  More  confident. 
Coming  on  like  a  great  teacher  of  men.  The  beauty 
and  the  color  and  now  I  see  what  artists  are  trying 
to  do.  Trying  to  get  it  all  down  on  canvas,  the  way 
it  glows  and  throbs  and  lives. 

Good  old  footballer  Charlie  suddenly  become 
lecturer  on  art.  Giving  us  the  aesthetic  chalk-talk. 
And  happy  too.  Pacing,  raving,  looking  with  won- 
der, throwing  out  his  arms,  wanting  to  embrace  the 
whole  scene.  Rhona,  if  you  could  only  see  it.  And 
I'm  so  happy.  This  is  Utopia.  It's  heaven.  Why  do 
we  have  to  come  back?  Why  can't  it  always  be  this 
way? 

Charlie  goes  off  to  the  dining  room  to  dig  the 
folds  of  the  curtains.  Joan  stays  there  under  my  arm 
peaceful  and  quiet.  Then  after  a  while  the  sky 
through  the  windows  beings  to  lighten  and  Joan 
says  it's  time  to  go  and  we  take  the  long  slow 
winding  drive  down  the  Charles  bank  my  right 
hand  holding  her  hand  and  on  her  front  steps  we 
stand  watching  the  first  sunlight  caught  in  the  tree 
leaves  and  it  was  all  about  as  fresh  and  clean  and 
lovely  as  you  could  want. 

I  had  two  hours  sleep  and  then  rushed  back  to 
Cambridge  to  meet  a  class.  As  I  went  by  the  main 
office  I  left  word  that  I  wanted  to  see  Mike  and 
George  as  soon  as  possible.  I  wanted  to  see  them 
right  away  to  tell  them  about  the  pilot-study  ses- 
sion. I  was  still  worried  about  jumping  the  gun, 
about  using  the  mushrooms  without  their  knowl- 
edge. 

After  the  class  Mike  was  waiting  in  my  office  and 
we  sat  down  and  I  told  him  the  whole  story.  About 
my  indecision,  about  my  not  wanting  to  be  square, 
about  O'Donell,  about  Charlie,  about  Joan  and  me 
feeling  so  close.  He  didn't  like  it  at  all.  He  didn't 
like  our  using  the  mushrooms  so  frivolously,  late  at 
night  after  drinking,  in  a  party  fashion.  All  very 
unscientific.  And  the  issue  of  trust  and  responsi- 
bility. Couldn't  I  be  depended  upon?  Was  I  so 
easily  influenced?  All  very  unscientific  and  non- 
collaborative. 

I  apologized  and  s.aid  I  felt  bad  about  not  in- 


78  00    The  Sacrament  Solves  No  Problems 


3.  The  participants  will  be 
given  control  of  their  own 
dosage.  A  maximum  dosage 
will  be  determined  by  the 
principal   investigators. 


This  maximum  number  of 
tablets  will  be  given  the 
subject  and  he  will  be  told 
to  dose  himself  at  the  rate 
and  amount  he  desires. 


4.  The  sessions  will  take 
place  in  pleasant,  spacious, 
aesthetic  surroundings.  Mu- 
sic, art  reproductions,  sym- 
pathetic observers  will  be 
available. 


forming  George  and  him.  But  also  that  I  was  glad  it 
had  happened  because  we  had  learned  a  lot.  First 
of  all  about  the  dosage.  It  was  clear  that  the  articles 
in  the  scientific  literature  were  way  off.  The  psychi- 
atric studies  had  been  using  four  and  five  pills. 
Here  we  had  Joan  taking  six  and  just  feeling  cozy. 
And  here  was  Charlie  taking  seven  and  just  getting 
sensitized  to  beauty  and  not  coming  anywhere  near 
the  deep  visions  and  the  falling  down  through  the 
floor,  through  the  earth  surface  down  into  the  well 
of  time  the  way  we  did  in  Mexico. 

And  the  second  thing  we  learned  was  timing  of 
dosage.  People  could  start  with  moderate  amounts, 
like  two  or  three  pills,  and  then  increase  the  dosage 
at  their  own  speed  so  that  they  could  control  it 
themselves  and  not  be  suddenly  clobbered  by  a  big 
first  dose.  And  then  too  it  was  obvious  that  ob- 
servers could  take  small  doses  as  well  so  that  they 
could  go  along  part  of  the  way  with  the  visionary 
voyagers. 

I  explained  to  Mike  that  it  was  inevitable  that 
Charlie  and  Rhona  be  made  part  of  the  group 
eventually.  We  couldn't  keep  them  out  of  the 
mushroom  scene  taking  place  on  the  premises. 

Mike  remained  disapproving,  wrenching  every 
drop  of  guilt  from  the  dark  raisin  of  my  remorse, 
but  after  I  apologized  he  was  touched  and  at  the 
end  he  wrung  my  hand  in  forgiveness. 

After  Mike  left,  O'Donell  came  by  my  office 
and  I  told  him  about  Mike's  punitive  wrath.  He 
nodded  cool  and  wise.  Sure.  Sure.  I  understand  the 
whole  thing.  It's  those  damn  research  meetings 
we've  been  having.  Everyone  gets  all  worked  up. 
Anxious.  They  want  to  take  the  trip  and  they  are 
scared  to  take  the  trip.  The  whole  research  business 
is  fake  anyway.  There's  too  much  fear  around.  This 
society  is  run  on  fear.  Research  is  a  phony  ritual  to 
counteract  fear  of  the  mystery.  We  should  keep  this 
thing  secret.  Have  a  good  time  with  these  mush- 
room pills.  Learn  with  them.  You  can't  research 
ecstasy  except  on  yourself  and  your  friends.  And  all 
this  collaborative  research  bullshit.  How  are  you 
going  to  collaborate  or  have  a  good  time  with 
people  who  are  afraid  of  fun  and  ecstasy  and  keep 
using  science  as  a  defense? 


October  1960  00    79 


I  knew  he  was  right.  It  was  some  residual  con- 
formist, prudish  cop-out  feeling  of  mine  to  want  to 
have  ecstasy  above  ground.  To  make  the  joyous 
mystery  public  and  socially  acceptable.  It  was  hard 
for  me  to  accept  the  fact  that  you  can't  surrender  to 
God's  grace  and  win  a  Sunday  school  merit  badge 
at  the  same  time. 

Another  thing,  said  O'Donell,  there's  the  power 
thing.  Mike  was  sore  because  we  went  ahead  last 
night  without  him.  Well  that's  the  way  it's  going  to 
be.  Everyone  who  isn't  tripping  himself  because 
he's  too  scared  or  tired  is  going  to  resent  our  doing 
it.  Sex,  drugs,  fun,  travel,  dancing,  loafing.  You 
name  it.  Anything  that's  pleasurable  is  going  to 
bring  down  the  wrath  of  the  power-control  people. 
Because  the  essence  of  ecstasy  and  the  essence  of 
religion  and  the  essence  of  orgasm  (and  they're  all 
pretty  much  the  same)  is  that  you  give  up  power 
and  swing  with  it.  And  the  cats  who  can't  do  that 
end  up  with  the  power  and  they  use  it  to  punish  the 
innocent  and  the  happy.  And  they'll  try  to  make  us 
look  bad  and  feel  bad. 

Yeah,  and  they  can  make  it  sound  bad  too.  Can't 
you  see  the  headlines  they  could  have  written 
about  last  night's  trip?  profs  lure  girls  to  drug 
parties.  Or  how  about  this  one— profs,  coeds 
nabred  in  drug  raid— wasn't  that  what  Mike  was 
doing  to  your  head? 

I  said,  well,  we  are  supposed  to  be  scientists  and 
we  used  the  drugs  last  night  in  an  informal  social 
situation.  We  gave  the  drugs  to  our  friends.  Drugs! 
Listen  to  that  word.  Drugs!  This  country  is  hysteri- 
cal about  drugs.  That  word  is  a  symbol  more 
powerful  than  sex  or  communism.  To  the  average 
American  the  word  drug  means  doctor-disease  or 
dope-degenerate.  But  underneath,  everyone  knows 
that  the  key  to  the  mystery  of  life  is  chemical.  The 
Elixir.  The  magic  potion.  The  Holy  Communion. 
The  alchemist's  powder.  And  everyone  who  wants 
to  keep  the  status  quo  going  is  alarmed  by  the  word 
drug.  I  was  thinking  of  Lola,  the  Mexican  maid, 
running  across  the  lawn  crossing  herself  in  fear,  fear 
of  the  mushrooms. 

I  was  feeling  fear  in  a  double  dose.  From  within 
and  without.  The  fear  of  taking  the  trip  and  going 


5.  The  subject  will  be  al- 
lowed to  bring  a  relative  or 
friend  to  be  his  observer. 


6.  No  subject  should  take 
the  drug  in  a  group  where 
he  is  a  stranger. 


7.  An  attempt  will  be  made 
to  have  one  observer  for 
each  two  subjects.  The  sub- 
jects will  be  given  complete 
freedom  of  the  house  but 
cannot  leave  the  premises. 
Observers  will  be  available 
at  all  times  for  discussions. 


80  00   The  Sacrament  Solves  No  Problems 


III     PROCEDURE  FOR 
COLLECTING  DATA 

The  basic  data  of  the  re- 
search are  reports  written 
by  the  subject  after  his  ex- 
perience. 


out  of  my  mind.  And  the  fear  of  the  wrath  of  the 
control  people  who  were  opposed  to  others'  taking 
the  trip.  I  was  climbing  on  the  tightrope  I  was  to 
walk  for  the  next  seven  years.  I  was  scared  by  the 
freedom  O'Donell  was  defending.  And  afraid  of  the 
prudish  social  forces  which  attack  freedom. 


Every  participant  who  writes 
up  a  report  receives  copies 
of  all  other  reports  after 
completion  of  his  own.  This 
procedure  increases  the 
feeling  of  collaboration  and, 
we  believe,  leads  to  frank 
description. 


A  second  source  of  data 
are  questionnaires  filled 
out  by  each  subject. 


There  is  a  third  source  of 
data:  ratings  executed  by 
observers  who  watched  the 
subjects  and  interviewed 
them  during  and  after  the 
experience. 


In  a  time  of  darkness  it  is  essential  to  be  cautious 
and  reserved.  One  should  not  needlessly  awaken 
overwhelming  enmity  by  inconsiderate  behavior.  In 
such  times  one  ought  not  to  fall  in  with  the  prac- 
tices of  others;  neither  should  one  drag  them  cen- 
soriously into  the  light.  In  social  intercourse  one 
should  not  try  to  be  all-knowing.  One  should  let 
many  things  pass,  without  being  duped.  ( I  Ching ) 

Any  psychedelic  session  confronts  you  with  para- 
doxes that  man  has  struggled  with  for  thousands  of 
years.  And  this  innocent  little  trip  proposed  by 
O'Donell  had  been  a  four-year  college  education.  It 
destroyed  my  hopes  that  the  mushroom  pill  was  an 
automatic  love-revelation  pill. 

This  was  a  disturbing  discovery.  There  seemed  to 
be  equal  amounts  of  God  and  Devil  (or  whatever 
you  want  to  call  them)  within  the  nervous  system. 
Psychedelic  drugs  just  open  the  door  to  the  Magic 
Theatre,  and  the  stages  and  dramas  you  encounter 
depend  on  what  you  are  looking  for,  your  state  of 
mind  when  you  begin,  the  pressure  of  your  travel- 
ing companions. 

The  terrible  truth  began  to  dawn— and,  no,  I 
didn't  want  to  face  it— that  our  consciousness  cre- 
ates the  universe  we  experience.  We  are  the  archi- 
tects of  the  celestial  and  hellish  stages  we  act  upon. 

I  began  to  get  a  sinking  feeling.  Psychedelic 
drugs  didn't  solve  any  problems.  They  just  magni- 
fied, mythified,  clarified  to  jewel-like  sharpness  the 
basic  problem  of  life  and  evolution. 

I  began  to  feel  the  frustration  of  the  guy  who 
invented  the  wheel  at  that  horrid  moment  when  he 
real-ized  it  could  be  harnessed  to  any  damnable 
human  game— to  a  war  chariot,  to  a  bulldozer,  to  a 
Las  Vegas  roulette  table.  The  old  games  will  always 
be  with  us:  spontaneity  vs.  control,  freedom  vs. 
structure,   love   vs.    isolation.   The   stage   sets    get 


October  1960  00    81 


bigger.  The  energies  move  faster,  our  insight  into 
the  divine  plan  becomes  more  awe-fully  detailed. 
The  razor-edge  of  paradox  remains. 

The  thunderstorm  has  the  effect  of  clearing  the 
air;  the  superior  man  produces  a  similar  effect 
when  dealing  with  mistakes  and  sins  of  men  that 
induce  a  condition  of  tension.  .  .  .  He  forgives  mis- 
deeds .  .  .  just  as  water  washes  everything  clean. 
(IChingXXXVI) 

And  the  quizzical  smile  of  O'Donell  remained. 


IV    SUBJECTS 

All  the  subjects  will  be  vol- 
unteers. 

Three  groups  of  subjects 
will  be  studied  in  this  ex- 
ploratory period:  a  group  of 
professional  and  non-pro- 
fessional volunteers,  a 
group  of  outstanding  crea- 
tive intellectuals,  a  group 
of  persons  psychologically 
addicted  to  and  dependent 
on  drug  stimulation. 

00 


DARKENING    OF    THE    LIGHT. 

In  adversity 

It  furthers  one  to  be  persevering. 

(IChing) 


10 


2 


You  Will  Be  Hurled  Beyond 
the  Good  and  Evil  Game:      H 

H 


H 
M 

H 
O 

W 
November  1960  w 

Guide:   susan  leary  £j 

O 
Oracle:  X  g 


Treading  (Conduct) 


The  Creative,  Heaven 


The  Joyous,  Lake 


Heaven  above,  the  lake  below: 

The  image  of  treading. 

Thus  the  superior  man  discriminates  between 

high  and  low, 
And  thereby  fortifies  the  thinking  of  the 

people. 

(IChing) 


TRIP  5 


Susan  Leary: 

My  first  memories  about 
my  father's  research  are  of 
sessions  in  our  house  on 
Grant  Avenue,  in  Newton, 
Massachusetts,  in  1960. 


I  remember  lots  of  people 
coming  all  the  time  and 
turning  on,  and  uh,  I  re- 
member doing  things  with 
the  people. 


I  was  thirteen  years  old  at 
the  time. 


We  had  an  enormous  house, 
and  uh,  there  was  a  huge 
living  room  with  a  shaggy 
green  rug  that  looked  like 
a  field  of  grass. 


And  a  sort  of  music  room. 
We  lived  in  this  beautiful 
house  sort  of  like  a  mu- 
seum. 


The  house  was  in  a  big  stir  of  excitement  when  I 
got  home.  The  great  Halloween  party  was  in  the 
works.  Ten  teen-age  boys  and  nine  girls.  The  girls 
were  going  to  stay  over  for  a  slumber  party.  They 
were  busy  stringing  up  orange  and  black  ribbons, 
creative  over  joyous,  and  trying  out  the  record 
player  and  fixing  each  other's  hair  and  giggling 
about  costumes  and  boys.  We  were  all  whipped  up 
into  a  pre-party  frenzy  and  it  didn't  help  when 
some  parents,  whom  I  had  invited  to  come  for  a 
drink  after  the  party,  appeared  beforehand  expect- 
ing to  be  entertained. 

Gradually  the  house  began  to  fill  up  with  sailors 
and  tramps  and  clowns  and  pickaninnies  and  Japa- 
nese geishas  and  the  adults  assembled  in  the 
kitchen  to  keep  out  of  the  way.  We  had  ordered 
two  roast  chickens  but  no  one  was  hungry  so  we  sat 
around  the  kitchen  table  putting  away  the  Scotch 
and  listening  to  the  noise  from  the  front  rooms. 

My  tension  kept  building  up.  No  sleep  the  night 
before,  of  course,  and  the  moral  donnybrook  with 
Mike  at  the  office  and  then  I  had  to  rush  out  to 
interfere  when  my  daughter  started  fighting  with 
her  brother,  who  had  burst  a  girl's  balloon.  And 
when  we  expected  the  party  to  settle  down  to 
dancing,  it  turned  out  that  teen-age  boys  don't 
dance  and  the  girls  huddled  disgustedly  in  the 
dining  room  near  the  record  player  while  the  boys 
started  a  football  game  in  the  living  room,  tackling 
any  girl  who  got  caught  in  midfield  without  inter- 
ference. Just  about  at  the  point  when  the  whistle 
should  be  blown  I  raced  out  of  the  kitchen  and 
broke  up  three  scrimmages  and  got  everyone 
assembled  in  the  dining  room  and  sitting  down  for 
entertainment,  except  that  we  hadn't  figured  out 
any  entertainment,  and  there  were  the  twenty  faces 
waiting  intently  to  be  entertained. 
84 


November  1960  00    85 


O'Donell  and  I  got  all  the  girls  into  the  living 
room  and  told  them  to  hide.  And  then  we  went  into 
the  dining  room  and  gave  the  boys  paper  bags  to 
put  over  their  heads  and  told  them  to  hunt  around 
blind  in  the  living  room  until  they  found  a  girl  and 
then  to  sit  on  the  couch  with  her.  Well  the  game 
went  like  wildfire  and  why  not  since  we  had  har- 
nessed the  strongest  motive  of  all  to  make  the 
wheels  go  round.  For  the  next  fifteen  minutes  we 
stood  in  the  living  room  catching  the  lamps  as  they 
fell  and  umpiring  the  action  and  listening  to  the 
screams  and  giggles.  When  the  last  girl  was  caught 
a  big  cheer  went  up  and  then  the  girls  said  that 
they  wanted  to  catch  the  boys  and  the  whole  act 
was  repeated  and  when  the  last  boy  was  caught 
they  all  screamed  that  they  wanted  to  try  it  again 
and  the  boys  went  into  the  dining  room  and  we 
started  helping  the  girls  to  hide.  The  atmosphere 
was  reeking  of  teen-age  excitement,  really  indecent 
in  its  fervor,  and  when  one  flushed  girl  came  up 
breathless  and  asked  the  name  of  this  wonderful 
new  game  I  told  her,  honey  the  game  isn't  really  so 
new.  It's  as  old  as  life  and  she  said,  well,  we  do 
need  a  name  for  it  and  I  said  we'll  think  of  a  good 
name  sooner  or  later. 

Now  about  four  or  five  of  the  girls  had  just 
blossomed  within  the  last  few  months  and  this 
didn't  lower  the  temperature.  They  kept  wanting  to 
hide  up  on  the  ledges  of  the  bookshelf  and  kept 
calling  to  O'Donell  and  Charlie  and  me  to  help 
boost  them  up  and  they  kept  falling  back  on  top  of 
us  and  we  were  struggling  to  lift  them  up  and  hold 
them  from  falling  and  then  the  boys  came  in  and 
the  screams  commenced  and  O'Donell  and  I  tot- 
tered back  to  the  kitchen  and  poured  a  Scotch  and 
looked  at  each  other. 

At  eleven  the  boys  departed  and  we  got  the  nine 
girls  herded  upstairs  to  the  master  bedroom  and  set 
up  the  TV  and  the  record  player  and  good  nights 
all  around  and  back  to  the  kitchen.  The  three  of  us, 
Charlie  and  O'Donell  and  I,  were  sitting  around  the 
kitchen  table  catching  our  breath  and  then  the 
parade  began.  The  girls  kept  coming  down  for  hot 
chocolate  and  cookies  and  milk  and  ice  cream.  The 
girls  were  still  flushed  and  wound  up  and  couldn't 


It  was  rented  from  a  very 
rich  professor  who  had 
traveled  around  the  world 
collecting  material  objects 
and  they  were  very  beauti- 
ful. 


There  was  a  Moroccan 
lamp  on  the  first  floor  at 
the  bottom  of  the  main 
stairway  and  it  had  lights 
inside. 


It  was  very  large  and  had 
all  different-colored  glass 
around  it. 


When  you  turned  it  on  in 
the  nighttime  it  glowed  and 
radiated  and  people  would 
get  hung  up  looking  at  it. 


I  remember  lots  of  graduate 
students  coming  for  psy- 
chedelic sessions,  and  min- 
isters and  Harvard  profes- 
sors and  religious  people 
with  robes,  and  poets. 


86  00    Beyond  the  Good  and  Evil  Game 


I    remember  Charlie   Olsen 
was  one  of  the  first. 


I  remember  he  was  very 
big  and  tali,  looked  like  a 
gigantic  mountain  of  teddy 
bear.  I  came  to  about  his 
waist. 


Much  of  the  time  I  was  not 
involved  in  what  was  going 
on  in  the  house. 


I  had  my  own  social  scene 
with  kids  in  Newton.  But  I 
remember  him  being  around 
the  house,  like  a  Santa 
Claus  laughing. 


He  was  very  nice. 


leave  that  kitchen  alone.  There  was  one  long-legged 
girl  in  particular  who  was  wearing  pink  underpants 
and  a  green  sweater  and  she  stood  by  the  electric 
mixer  waiting  for  a  milk  shake  and  kept  pulling  the 
sweater  down  over  her  underpants  and  when  she 
let  go  the  sweater  snapped  up  and  then  she  pulled 
it  down  and  it  snapped  up  and  then  she  pulled  it 
down  and  it  snapped  up.  She  made  four  trips  to  the 
kitchen  and  finally  I  asked  her  in  a  nice  way  to  go 
back  up  and  put  on  her  overcoat  or  something. 
Charlie  and  O'Donell  and  I  were  trying  to  carry  on 
a  conversation  and  finally  I  called  a  curfew  on  the 
girls'  kitchen  visits  and  we  went  back  to  serious 
drinking. 

We  were  all  three  tired  and  drawn  out  to  a  fine 
edge  and  the  whisky  was  relaxing  and  we  fell  to 
discussing  the  mushrooms  and  the  big  moral 
struggle  of  the  day.  Good  old  solid  Charlie  was 
shocked  and  angry  at  the  moral  abuse  we  had 
taken  from  Mike.  O'Donell  had  some  creative 
theories  explaining  why  they  always  persecute  us. 
He  was  taking  all  the  blame  for  the  informal 
session. 

The  more  we  talked  the  more  righteous  I  became 
and  the  madder  I  got  at  the  moralists.  Alcohol  stirs 
up  the  emotions.  Of  course,  the  more  I  agreed  with 
O'Donell,  the  more  guilty  I  became  about  my  re- 
sentment towards  him  and  my  blaming  him  for  the 
session.  So  we  were  swinging  along  in  the  most 
cheerful  style  and  then  the  question  came  up  again. 
O'Donell  said,  well,  why  don't  we  have  a  mush- 
room or  two  just  to  see  what  a  small  dose  would 
do.  Now  this  sounded  like  a  good  experiment.  And 
after  all  the  turmoil,  it  seemed  only  just  and  true 
that  we  three  comrades  should  cement  our  alliance 
with  a  touch  of  revelation.  It  so  happened  that  I 
had  the  bottle  in  my  pocket.  I  could  feel  it  there 
every  time  I  reached  for  matches.  I  pulled  it  out  and 
we  each  took  two. 

Charlie  started  again  on  his  mushroom  litany. 
They  produced  paradise,  and  oriental  beauty,  and 
he  was  twenty-two  years  old  and  had  never 
dreamed  that  such  heavenly  bliss  was  available  to 
mankind.  I  was  out  of  cigarettes  and  when  I  asked 
Charlie  for  a  Marlboro  he  grinned  and  said,  sure, 


November  1960  00    87 


but  it  will  cost  you  a  mushroom.  Good  enough.  I 
poured  out  a  pink  pearl  and  handed  it  to  him. 
When  I  asked  for  a  light  he  proposed  the  same 
bargain  and  then  I  realized  more  clearly  the  power- 
control  position  I  had  set  up  for  myself.  That 
moment  in  my  office  when  I  had  taken  the  brown 
cardboard  box  from  Mike  and  put  it  in  my  file,  I 
had  changed  my  relationships  with  everyone  I  dealt 
with.  They  all  wanted  the  bread  of  dreams,  the 
flesh  of  the  gods.  And  I  was  changed  with  the  one 
ring  of  power  in  my  pocket.  I  was  feeling  that 
miserable  pleasure  of  the  millionaire.  There  was 
always  the  ploy  behind  the  ploy.  Can  I  tap  him  for 
nirvana?  Can  I  work  him  for  a  vision?  There  was 
one  easy  way  out. 

Look,  Charlie,  let's  stop  all  the  playing  around 
for  the  mushroom  power.  I  have  the  ring  of  power. 
But  I  don't  want  it.  I'm  getting  rid  of  it.  I'm  giving 
the  precious  mushroom  bottle  to  you.  Here,  take  it. 
Now  you're  stuck  with  it.  Now  you  decide  who  gets 
them  and  how  many  and  when.  Let  them  come  to 
you  for  the  word.  You  decide.  You  dispense  them. 
You  take  the  responsibility. 

I  handed  the  bottle  to  Charlie  and  laughed  at  his 
big  football  face  bewildered  by  my  move.  I  felt 
great.  The  load  was  off  my  shoulders.  Mushrooms 
had  taught  me  this  much,  that  the  artificial  differ- 
ences between  people,  like  age  or  role  or  prestige  or 
control  of  the  money  or  the  land  or  the  army  or  the 
mushrooms  were  irrelevant.  I  was  damn  glad  to  get 
rid  of  the  role  that  I  had  put  myself  in— holder  of 
the  indole  ring. 

Less  shame,  my  guide  said,  would  wash  away  a 
greater  fault  than  yours  has  been,  my  son.  There- 
fore he  unburdened  of  your  sorrow.  Remember,  I 
am  always  at  your  side.  ( Inferno  VII ) 


And  another  poet  I  remem- 
ber is  Allen  Ginsberg. 


I  remember  I  was  watching 
television  in  my  room  one 
night  and  my  father  was 
running  a  session  down- 
stairs. 


I  was  watching  a  movie; 
the  airplane  movie  where 
the  airplane  catches  on  fire. 


What's  the  name  of  that 
movie?  It  was  the  one 
where  the  wing  catches  on 
fire  and  they  throw  all  the 
luggage  outside. 


While  I  was  laughing  and  enjoying  my  new 
release  Charlie  was  whispering  to  O'Donell  and 
then  he  began  pouring  them  out  in  his  hand,  all  of 
them,  the  whole  bottle,  pink-pearl  cluster  in  his  big 
hand  and  he  counted  out  eight,  a  third  of  the  total 
and  handed  them  to  O'Donell  and  then  he  pushed 
eight  with  his  big  finger  into  his  right  hand  and 


Allen  Ginsberg  was  down- 
stairs and  my  father  would 
come  up  now  and  then  to 
report. 


88  00    Beyond  the  Good  and  Evil  Game 


And  I  remember  one  point, 
my  father  coming  up  into 
my  room  and  saying  that 
Allen  thought  that  Kennedy 
and  Khrushchev  should 
have  an  LSD  session  to- 
gether and  end  the  Cold 
War. 


So  Allen  got  on  the  phone 
and  I  remember  my  father 
was  worried  about  the 
phone  bill,  so  Allen  Gins- 
berg called  Jack  Kerouac 
instead. 


I  remember  an  Easter  Sun- 
day, 1961,  Alan  Watts  the 
philosopher  was  running  a 
session,  very  Christian. 


They  took  LSD  in  goblets 
and  read  from  the  New 
Testament. 


During  the  afternoon  it  be- 
gan snowing  very  lightly 
outside. 


gave  them  to  me  and  pushed  his  finger  around 
counting  six,  seven,  eight,  and  let  them  drop  into 
his  right  hand  and  popped  them  into  his  mouth  and 
there  was  one  left— the  twenty-fifth— and  he  said, 
who  gets  this  extra.  O'Donell  said,  you  carry  the 
heaviest  body  weight  so  you  deserve  it,  and  down  it 
went,  the  last  pink-pearl  pill.  I  was  still  holding 
eight  in  my  hand.  I  was  again  surprised  at  the  way 
Charlie  and  O'Donell  were  treating  the  mushrooms. 
They  were  applying  the  liquor  ritual  to  this  new 
commodity.  We're  hung  up  always  on  the  rituals 
we've  learned,  and  the  old  drinking  pattern  of 
bottoms  up  and  share  the  supply  was  operating  and 
at  this  moment  you  were  either  with  it  or  you 
weren't.  Besides,  I  had  given  the  responsibility  to 
Charlie.  I  was  free  so  I  threw  the  eight  pink  jewels 
into  my  mouth.  To  speed  matters  up  O'Donell 
suggested  that  we  chew  them.  Sweet  chalky  taste 
and  we  washed  them  down  with  Scotch  and  waited 
for  the  next  scene. 

From  all  the  literature  I  had  read  on  the  subject, 
we  had  just  surpassed  the  world's  record  for  psilo- 
cybin  consumption.  The  psychiatric  people  had 
been  using  8  to  10  milligrams  (that  is,  four  to 
five  pills),  and  I  had  just  consumed  20  milligrams 
(ten  pills)  and  so  had  O'Donell,  and  Charlie  had 
wolfed  down  22  milligrams. 

It  hit  in  about  twenty  minutes,  the  waves  of 
sensation  rippling  down  the  body  and  the  pressure 
on  the  ear  drums.  There  were  six  doors  to  the 
kitchen  and  they  were  all  closed.  We  were  sealed  in 
a  bathysphere  plunged  down  to  sea  bottom.  The 
walls  and  ceilings  glowed  phosphorescent  yellow, 
electric  vibrating  color.  The  floor  was  shimmering 
like  lemon  Jell-o.  Some  torn  fragments  of  party 
decoration  were  scattered  on  the  floor  and  they 
sparkled,  dazzling,  black  shiny  ebony  jewels. 
Orange  gems. 

Some  kid  had  left  a  cardboard  top  hat  and 
Charlie  tilted  it  on  his  head.  His  face  was  huge, 
yellow-stained  with  deep  green  shadows  under  his 
eyes.  He  had  grown  in  stature,  the  leader,  the 
keeper  of  the  mushrooms.  Top-hatted  ringmaster  of 
the  cosmic  circus.  Chuckling,  grinning  impishly. 
Walking  around  the  kitchen  joking  about  the  for- 


November  1960  00    89 


tune  in  jewels  on  the  floor,  lifting  his  huge  body  in 
a  comic  tiptoe  gait.  The  clown  genius.  He  was  the 
wisest  and  funniest  person  I  had  ever  seen. 

O'Donell  the  rebel  was  in  a  good  mood  too.  We 
were  three  kitchen  conspirators.  Three  gods  romp- 
ing around  a  spangly  paradise.  There  were  only  the 
three  of  us  in  the  yellow-walled  universe.  No  one 
else  existed  but  this  rolling  trinity.  Then  over  the 
laughter  I  heard  a  noise,  a  door  opening  upstairs 
and  a  blast  of  rock-and-roll  from  the  record  player, 
and  then  the  door  closing  and  silence.  Oh  yes;  from 
a  thousand  years  back  I  remembered  the  party  and 
the  girls'  slumber-group  upstairs  on  that  other  dis- 
tant planet.  Vague  angst.  Are  they  all  right?  Are 
they  doing  well  a  million  light-years  away  up  there? 
Yes.  Don't  worry.  Don't  take  the  interstellar  trip  up 
there  to  see.  .  .  . 

Then 

suddenly 

it  all 

changes 

The  play  has  started 

We 

Are  puppets  in  that  old 

Cosmological  drama. 

SCENE  ONE 

A  large  entrance  hall  leading  to  wide  sweeping 
stairs.  On  the  left  of  the  stairs  a  huge  oaken  door 
closes  off  the  dining  room.  On  the  right  an  archway 
leads  into  an  enormous  living  room  dimly  lit.  A 
small  door  leading  into  the  kitchen  is  shut.  The 
floor  and  stairs  are  covered  with  a  deep-piled  rug, 
no,  it  is  really  a  desert  expanse  of  sand.  A  wide 
stream  of  brown  sand  silently  runs  down  the  stairs 
and  flows  into  a  shifting  pool  on  the  hallway  floor. 
The  top  half  of  the  front  door  is  set  in  polished 
diamond,  three  feet  by  five  feet,  flashing  intense 
glass  light.  The  woodwork  and  closet  doors  are 
carved  ivory,  solid,  bone  smooth  and  cool  to  the 
touch.  A  light  green  silk  covers  the  walls  and  in  the 
fabric  are  thousands  of  yellow  diamonds  in  the  form 
of  fleur  de  lis  gleaming.  A  golden  picture  frame  out- 
lines a  large  rectangular  hole  in  the  wall.  Within  the 


And  I  remember  at  one 
point  we  all  went  outside 
and  chased  snowflakes,  and 
were  running  around  catch- 
ing them  like  baseball 
players  chasing  fly  balls. 


I  remember  Aldous  Huxley 
came  over  many  times. 


He  was  very  tall  and 
strange-looking  and  he  had 
a  funny  accent  and  he  was 
very  nice. 


He  was  tall  and  thin  and 
sort  of  stoopy.  He  sort  of 
reminded  me  of  Gandalf 
the  gray  wizard  in  those 
books  on  the  Fellowship  of 
the  Ring. 


I  was  allowed  to  go  any- 
place in  the  house.  The  ses- 
sions were  always  open. 


The  doors  were  always 
open  and  the  people  al- 
ways liked  having  my 
younger  brother  or  myself 
come  in. 


90  00    Beyond  the  Good  and  Evil  Game 


They  were  always  pleasant. 
They  weren't  very  active,  of 
course. 


They  would  smile  and  uh, 
they  were  always  mellow 
and  rather  angelic. 


If  I  walked  in  a  room  and, 
if  I  walked  into  the  music 
room  for  example,  and  all 
the  people  were  lying 
around  listening  to  music, 
meditating,  I  would  know 
then  that  they  were  in  a 
session  because  that's  not 
something  that  people  do 
in  their  normal  frame  of 
consciousness. 


But  with  people  who  I 
really  didn't  know  I  couldn't 
tell  because  I  had  no  way 
to  compare  their  normal 
state  of  consciousness  with 
the  state  of  consciousness 
they  were  in  when  they  had 
taken  LSD. 


hole,  about  three  feet  back,  sits  a  tall  Spanish 
cardinal.  He  has  a  long,  thin,  dirty  white  beard 
which  trembles  as  he  breathes.  An  elongated  Greco 
nose  and  deep-set  eyes  watching  steadily,  now 
frowning,  now  smiling,  now  turning  down  to  the 
illuminated  manuscript  on  which  his  hands  rest  and 
along  which  his  slender  fingers  move.  His  thin  pillar 
body  is  covered  with  the  red  folds  of  an  episcopal 
robe,  and  his  arms  in  yellow-white  lace.  He  is 
watching,  waiting,  judging,  preparing  to  render 
verdict. 

On  the  opposite  wall  there  hangs  a  four-foot 
Moroccan  mosque  lamp,  burnished  gold,  pierced 
over  its  entire  swollen  surface  with  filigreed  lace- 
work  designs.  Inside  the  lamp,  behind  orange,  red, 
and  green  glass,  burn  three  bulbs  spilling  colors 
over  the  wall,  setting  fire  to  the  green  silk  and 
reflecting  from  the  embedded,  flowered  diamonds. 

The  sand  below  the  lamp  is  littered  with  piles  of 
gems— ruby,  emerald,  orange-diamond— which  have 
dropped  down  through  the  latticed  holes. 

Spotlights  flood  the  stage  with  changing  waves  of 
color.  Under  the  sand  floor  is  an  electric  generator 
which  emits  a  steady  hum  and  charges  the  atmos- 
phere with  high- voltage  currents. 

For  centuries  there  is  no  action,  only  the  cardinal 
moving  his  thin  fingers  across  his  scrolled  pages 
and  breathing  softly. 

Then, 

The  kitchen  door  opens.  Enter  Charlie,  pagan 
leader  of  rebel  gang.  He  is  nine  feet  tall,  a  moun- 
tain man  with  a  huge  meat-red  face  glowing  with 
energy,  grinning,  chuckling  over  some  rebel- 
triumph,  eyes  dancing.  His  black  top  hat  is  tilted. 
He  doesn't  walk.  He  soars  in  leaping,  floating  steps 
to  center  stage,  looking  around  in  pleased  admira- 
tion. He  turns  and  beckons  to  his  two  followers. 


Enter  O'Donell  and  Leary.  They  are  small,  wiry, 
happy  rebels.  O'Donell's  face  is  covered  with 
freckled  potato  sacking  through  which  his  white 
animal  teeth  gleam  with  impish  pleasure.  Leary 
gazes  around  in  wonder. 


92  00    Beyond  the  Good  and  Evil  Game 


I  don't  remember  how  often 
my  father  was  taking  it,  but 
I  do  remember  that  he 
would  take  it  with  all  the 
guests. 


I  remember  that  there  were 
many  people  who  would 
come  and  many  people  who 
were  involved  in  what  he 
was  doing. 


Usually  I  could  tell  when 
my  father  was  high,  but 
sometimes  I  couldn't.  It  de- 
pended on  how  high  he 
was. 


I  usually  could  tell,  because 
his  face  would  be  glowing 
and  he'd  be  radiating. 


There's    no 
describe  it. 


way    really   to 


It  seemed  naiural  and  good. 


Leader  Charlie  floats  halfway  up  the  stairs  and 
sweeps  his  hand  round  in  gesture. 

charlie:  Look.  Look  at  the  emeralds.  Look  at  the 
gold.  Look  at  the  diamonds. 

(Leary   stands   in   dazed  awe.   O'Donell  shuffles 

around  the  stage,  his  shoulders  butting  forward.  He 

is  grinning  fiercely. ) 

o'donell:  They  left  them  and  now  it's  all  ours. 

( All  three  roar  with  laughter. ) 

Quick,  get  a  paper  bag  and  we'll  scoop  up 
all  those  jewels. 

charlie:  And  the  sand.  Look,  rivers  of  it.  The 
owners  of  this  house  are  going  to  be  sur- 
prised to  find  this  desert  in  their  hallway. 

( All  laugh.  And  laugh. ) 

What  can  we  do  with  it? 

leary:  Tell  the  people  who  take  care  of  the  house 
to  sweep  it  up.  And  clean  up  all  these  sloppy 
piles  of  jewels  scattered  around.  Bad  house- 
keeping. 

( All  laugh.  And  laugh. ) 

Tell  them  to  put  the  sand  into  millions  of 
hourglasses. 

charlie:  Hourglasses.  What  are  they  for? 

leary:  I  once  heard  about  people  who  make 
machines  to  measure  time. 

charlie:  Measure  time!  They  think  they  can  mea- 
sure time? 

o'donell:  Hah.  Measure  time?  What  crazy  thing 
will  they  think  of  next? 

leary:  Why  sure.  People  will  sell  the  jewels  to  buy 
machines  to  measure  time. 

charlie:  Sell  jewels?  Next  you  know  they'll  be 
selling  sunshine. 

leary:  And  moonlight. 

o'donell:  I  am  time.  Can  they  measure  me?  With 
an  hourglass? 

( All  laugh.  And  laugh. ) 

(Charlie  soars  down  from  the  stairs  and  bounds 

around  the  stage.  O'Donell  and  Leary  follow  him 

aimlessly. ) 

charlie:  This  stage  is  so  empty. 

leary:  Yes,  big  and  empty. 

o'donell:  They've  all  gone. 

charlie:  Where  did  they  go? 


November  1960  00 


o'donell:  They've  been  doing  it  forever. 

leary:  Yes,  they  do,  don't  they. 

charlie:  What?  Do  what? 

o'donell:  Come  and  act  on  the  stage  set  for  a  while 

and  then  go. 
charlie:  Why  do  they  do  it? 
o'donell:  Nobody  has  ever  figured  it  out. 
(Leary   has   been   standing   studying   the   jewels 
dropping  from  the  burnished  mosque  lamp.  He 
turns  with  a  start. ) 
leary:  Figured  what  out? 
o'donell:  Where  they  come  from.  Why  they  come. 

Where  they're  going. 
( They  stand,  all  three,  in  silence  for  .  .  .  well,  lefs 
say  eleven  years.  Then  the  cardinal  sitting  behind 
the  gold  frame  in  his  rectangle  cave  turns  and 
raises  his  left  hand  up  to  his  chin  so  that  it  covers, 
merges  with  his  elongated  beard.  His  eyes  smile 
compassionately.  He  speaks  in  a  low  voice  in  Span- 
ish.) 
cardinal:  Dear  little  ones.  Do  you  really  think  that 

you  can  answer  that  riddle? 
leary:  Can  you  answer  it? 

(The  cardinal  smiles,  moves  his  arm  down  to  the 
book,   exposing   his   beard,   then  moves  it  back, 
tugging  softly  at  his  chin.  He  says  nothing. ) 
leary:  Yes  I  can  answer  the  riddle.  There  is  no 

riddle.  (He  is  thinking  of  each  grain  in  the 

river  of  sand  swirling  below  his  feet. ) 
o'donell:  That's  right,  there's  no  riddle.  I've  solved 

it  all,  many  times. 
charlie:    (Reproachful  leader-god,  commanding.) 

Why    do   you    guys   worry?   With   all   this 

beauty?  Why  worry  about  riddles? 
o'donell:  What  riddles? 
charlie:  Exactly.  What  riddles? 
o'donell:  We  were  talking  about  all  of  them  and 

where  they  went  to. 
charlie:  Who? 

o'donell:  Why,  all  the  actors  that  were  here  before. 
charlie:    It  is   funny  when  you   think   about  it. 

Where  did  they  go?  Who? 
leary:    Well,    there    were    the    Landlords.    They 

rented  us  the  house  and  left.  They  think  they 

own  the  set. 
o'donell:  Own  the  set?  Own? 


But  I  always  believed  in  my 
father  and  what  he  was  and 
I  figured  that  what  he  was 
doing  would  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  you 
know,  he  would  not  be  do- 
ing anything  for  any  use- 
less, frivolous  reason. 


In  spite  of  the  fact  that  there 
were  lots  of  people  and  lots 
of  laughing  there,  it  wasn't 
social. 


Because  all  the  communi- 
cation— there  was  not  all 
that  much  of  verbal  com- 
munication except  when 
Alan  Watts  was  there,  who 
talked  constantly. 


94  00    Beyond  the  Good  and  Evil  Game 


But,  usually  there  was  not 
much  verbal  communica- 
tion. 


It  wasn't  a  social  thing, 
really.  It  was  much  like  peo- 
ple having  telepathy. 


It  wasn't  social  like  a  talky 
cocktail  party. 


My  father  was  teaching  at 
Harvard  at  the  time  and 
when  ...  I  knew  that  it  had 
something  to  do  with  his 
Harvard  research. 


He  never  really  explained  it 
to  me,  but  the  people  who 
were  there  were  research- 
ers and  serious  types,  lots 
of  Harvard  graduate  stu- 
dents and  a  lot  of  very  in- 
telligent people. 


leary:  And  the  land  too.  They  think  they  own  the 

land. 
( All  laugh.  And  laugh. ) 
charlie:  (Still  laughing.)  Stop  it  you  guys.  It's  too 

much.  You  make  it  sound  like  a  game  of 

Monopoly.  Own  the  land.  ( He  laughs. ) 
leary:  Damn  right.  They  bought  it  with  money, 

too. 
o'donell:  Money,  hah. 
charlie:  Money.  You  mean  the  green  paper  that 

you  find  in  the  cardboard  box  that  the  game 

comes  in. 
leary:  Exactly. 

charlie:  Good.  Now  I  understand. 
leary:   Well,  the  Landlords  bought  it  from  the 

Cartwrights.  And  the  Crabtrees,  they  sold  it 

to  the  Cartwrights.  That  was  much  earlier  in 

the  game. 
o'donell  :  All  gone. 
leary:  And  here  we  are.  With  all  the  sand  and  the 

jewels  and  the  ivory  that  goes  with  it. 
o'donell:  Well  I  think  it's  only  right  that  we  keep 

up  the  game.  Why  don't  we  buy  it  and  sell  it 

to  each  other? 
charlie:  Yeah,  good  idea.  It  will  pass  the  time. 

And  then  after  we  get  tired  buying  and  sell- 
ing let's  go  in  and  listen  to  music  in  the 

study. 
(Short  pause.  Charlie  now  leaps  back  up  on  the 
stairs. ) 

It  really  is   beautiful,   isn't   it.   Shimmering 

and  glowing. 
o'donell:  Strange,  strange. 
leary:  Yes.  What? 

o'donell:  That  they  did  it  all.  The  stage  is  set. 
charlie:   (Soaring  down  to  the  doors.)  You  mean 

the  way  they  made  these  ivory  doors? 
o'donell:  Yes.  Look  at  them.  How  they  worked! 
leary:  And  how  they  cared.  They  must  have  cared. 
charlie:  And  the  old  Arab  lamp  there.  Some  old 

Arab  sitting  in  his  tent  hammering  it  and 

designing  the  holes  and  lacework. 
leary:  And  all  for  us. 
o'donell:  They  made  the  scene  and  left. 
charlie:  Left  it  for  us. 


November  1960  00    95 


o'donell:  (Pointing.)  Hey,  why  is  that  big  door  to 
the  dining  room  shut?  I  hate  shut  doors. 

charlie:  It's  stuck.  I  tried  to  open  it. 

o'donell:  How  did  it  get  closed  in  the  first  place? 

leary:  I  shut  it  during  the  game. 

o'donell:  What  game? 

leary:  The  game  where  the  boys  were  searching 
blind  after  the  girls.  I  had  the  boys  shut  up 
in  there  while  the  girls  were  hiding  and  it 
got  stuck. 

o'donell:  (He  bends  over  shaking  his  head,  wolf- 
like  and  muttering. )  Always  a  mistake. 

leary:  What? 

o'donell:  To  shut  people  in.  Always  a  mistake. 

charlie:  (The  leader.)  Well,  let's  open  the  bars. 
Freedom.  The  three  of  us  can  push  the  gate 
back. 

(Charlie  motions.  O'Donell  and  Leary  float  over 

and  they  begin  shoving  and  butting,  trying  to  slide 

the  door  along  its  roller.  It  doesn't  move.  They  try 

again.  Then  stop,  all  leaning  in  pushing  positions 

against  the  door. ) 

leary:  Well,  we've  been  able  to  open  lots  of  things 
up  tonight.  But  this  one  we  can't  do. 

charlie:  Yeah.  Can't  win  them  all.  We'll  do  it 
tomorrow  when  we're  not  under  .  .  .  when 
we  feel  stronger. 

o'donell:  (He  is  frowning  and  gnashing  his  teeth 
slowly,  hunched  over.)  Well,  I  feel  strong 
now.  Stronger  than  anyone  in  the  world. 
And  I  want  doors  open.  I  can't  stand  to  be 
cooped  in.  (He  starts  pushing  violently, 
savagely,  his  eyes  gleaming  and  his  teeth 
white  against  his  brown,  cloth  face.  He  cant 
move  the  door.  Failure  makes  him  angrier 
and  he  throws  himself  against  the  door  again 
growling.  The  colored  floodlights  begin  to 
dim  and  the  room  grows  shadowy. ) 


And  I  figured  it  must  have 
something  to  do  with  his 
work  in  psychology. 


It  was  not  a  typical  home 
life,  but  my  father  getting 
involved  with  LSD  was  not 
the  beginning  of  my  un- 
usual life. 


Even  before  he  got  involved 
with  LSD  I  had  no  mother 
and  we  traveled  a  great 
deal  in  Europe  and  Mexico 
and  I  saw  a  lot  of  the  world 
and  interesting  people. 


Jewels  lose  their  sparkle.  The  gem  shadows  are 
puddles  of  drab  color.  Sand  river  turns  into  tan 
stained  carpet.  The  white  ivory  woodwork  gleams 
unpleasantly  bright.  Charlie  becomes  an  ungainly 
young  man,  silly  with  child's  hat  on  his  head.  Three 
drugged  men  in  disheveled  shirt  sleeves  wandering 


When  my  father  got  in- 
volved with  LSD  it  just  took 
on  new,  sort  of  new  di- 
mension. 


96  00    Beyond  the  Good  and  Evil  Game 


And  it's  true  that  all  my 
friends  just  lived  with  their 
mother  and  father  and  so 
forth  and  they  always  had 
a  tight,  small  family  scene. 


around  at  the  foot  of  the  wide,  sweeping  staircase. 
The  bearded  cardinal  has  frozen,  two-dimensional 
against  the  wall.  Three  Beckett  clowns  on  a  vast, 
empty  stage.  Pointlessly  milling  around. 


We  used  to  have  a  lot  of 
visitors  come,  and  people 
staying  for  the  weekend, 
and  some  staying  for  pe- 
riods of  time. 


It  was  not  the  normal,  it 
was  not  like  my  friends' 
home  life. 


Well,  my  friends  weren't 
aware  that  my  father  was 
conducting  LSD  experi- 
ments. 


They  just  figured  that  my 
father  had  a  lot  of  friends 
coming  and  going  all  the 
time. 


I  heard  O'Donell  saying  something  about  the 
teen-age  girls  upstairs.  I  frowned.  Bad  thought. 
Keep  the  other  planets  out  of  the  action.  Charlie 
tilted  his  top  hat  down  over  his  eyes,  giggling  at 
O'Donell.  No  point  in  thinking  about  girls,  O'Donell, 
you're  impotent  under  the  drug  anyway.  O'Donell 
scowled.  Oh  yeah.  That's  what  you  think.  Talk 
about  your  own  impotency  but  it  doesn't  hold 
for  me.  I  may  turn  them  on. 

Charlie  grinned.  What  would  the  girls'  mothers 
think  if  they  knew  there  were  drugged  men  roving 
around  the  house.  The  girls  have  never  been  safer, 
I  said.  All  the  reports  say  that  the  drug  turns  sex 
off.  Charlie  laughed.  That's  right.  Last  night  I  could 
look  at  Rhona  and  Joan  and  they  were  beautiful 
but  I  had  no  lust  and  didn't  even  want  to  touch 
them. 

O'Donell  loosed  a  mocking  laugh.  The  scene 
bothered  me.  I  was  feeling  disjointed  and  rudder- 
less. I  felt  a  longing  for  someone  loving.  I  missed 
Joan  and  wanted  to  hold  her  close.  Charlie  and 
O'Donell  were  arguing  and  the  happy  mood  was 
lost.  Life  is  pointless  without  love,  I  said.  We're 
straggling,  lost  on  an  endless  desert  stage.  It's  all 
meaningless,  but  we  have  to  do  something. 

O'Donell  leered.  Speak  for  yourself.  I'm  going 
upstairs. 

It  was  crystal  clear  to  me  that  life  without  love  is 
an  empty  sham,  senseless  action,  puppetry.  But  we 
have  to  do  something.  What  had  any  point?  I  tried 
to  use  my  mind,  but  there  were  no  categories,  no 
cliches,  nothing  inferential  to  hold  on  to.  All  love- 
less actions  were  ritual.  Empty  gestures.  Where, 
where  is  the  real  right  program?  What,  what  to  do 
and  why?  Where  to  begin?  How  to  build  up  a  life 
of  loveless  action?  I  was  standing  in  the  hallway 
with  my  eyes  closed  trying  to  find  a  philosophy,  a 
way,  a  meaning.  What  is  life  about  anyway,  with- 
out love?  I  was  pushing  my  mind  back,  back  to 
some  beginnings,  to  something  basic.  What  action 


November  1960  00    97 


is  any  better  than  the  other?  What?  What?  What? 
Painful,  clutching  conflict.  Then  I  reached  some- 
thing. Helping  others.  Yes,  that's  the  beginning. 
Everywhere  there  is  helpfulness  and  then  we  try  to 
help.  Yes.  There's  a  difference  that  makes  sense.  It 
is  better  to  help  than  hurt.  The  house  is  in  a  mess 
from  the  party.  Rhona  will  have  to  clean  it  up 
tomorrow.  I'll  do  it  tonight.  That  makes  sense.  I'll 
start  with  the  kitchen. 

Charlie  and  O'Donell  were  still  bantering  sar- 
castically at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  The  only  loveless 
action  that  makes  sense  is  to  clean  up  the  mess,  I 
said.  Matter  of  fact,  that's  a  form  of  love.  Come  on 
out  and  help  me. 

I  left  them  and  walked  into  the  kitchen  and 
started  running  water  in  the  sink  and  rinsing 
dishes.  The  door  opened  and  Charlie  walked  in. 
O'Donell's  gone  upstairs.  Upstairs?  I  thought  of 
upstairs  and  I  thought  of  the  girls  and  the  slumber 
party.  Waves  of  guilt  washed  over  me  for  having 
dragged  my  kids  around  from  country  to  country, 
school  to  school,  house  to  house,  and  Susan  missing 
friends  and  the  warm  cozy  routine  schedule  and 
this  was  her  first  party,  her  first  social  event,  and 
how  excited  she  was  and  nothing  must  mar  it,  no 
clowning-around  adults.  Upstairs?  Where  did  he  go 
upstairs?  To  bed.  I  turned  from  the  sink  and 
looked  at  Charlie.  My  voice  was  harsh.  Are  you 
sure? 

Charlie's  face  reacting  to  my  rough  tones.  A  look 
of  terror.  Yes,  well,  I'm  sure  .  .  .  that's  what  he 
said.  My  voice  ominous.  Well,  I  gave  you  the  pills 
and  it's  your  party  and  you're  responsible.  More 
terror.  Gee,  I'll  go  upstairs  to  check.  I  stood  by  the 
sink  thinking  again  about  the  dear,  naive, 
tender  daughter,  wanting  so  much  a  normal 
stable  growing  up.  I  dried  my  hands  and  started 
upstairs.  In  the  upper  hallway  I  could  see  the  door 
to  the  girls'  room  open  and  Charlie's  voice  com- 
manding. I  was  sick  with  the  horror  of  it.  O'Donell, 
drugged,  lurching  into  the  slumber  party.  Scandal. 
Susan's  dream  of  social  acceptance  shattered.  The 
girls  were  standing  in  the  center  of  the  room  bug- 
eyed.  O'Donell  was  lying  on  their  bed.  Charlie  was 
bending    over    him    pulling    his    arm.    Come    on 


They  were  not  aware  until 
the  Harvard  business  was 
publicized. 


Well,  um,  I'm  sure  they  no- 
ticed something  unusual 
about  it,  but  I  never  dis- 
cussed it  with  them. 


They  were  aware  that  some- 
thing was  going  on,  but  it 
was  like  living  in  a  church 
with  jolly  people. 


98  00    Beyond  the  Good  and  Evil  Game 


Federal  Court 
Laredo,  Texas 

The  Court:  You  may  close 
for  the  government,  Mr. 
Blask. 


Mr.  Blask:  May  it  please  the 
court.  Ladies  and  gentlemen 
of  the  jury.  I,  too,  would 
take  a  moment  to  express 
for  Mr.  Susman  and  myself 
appreciation  for  the  pa- 
tience with  which  you  have 
listened  to  the  testimony  of 
the  last  two  or  three  days. 


To  say  that  this  was  an  un- 
usual case  would  be  gross 
understatement,  and  to  say 
that  it's  an  important  case 
would  be  gross  understate- 
ment, because,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  I  have  partici- 
pated in  what  I  feel  is  a 
considerable  number  of 
criminal  cases  and  I  cannot 
remember  a  case  that  I  have 
felt  more  strongly  about 
than  I  have  this  case,  and 
I  will  tell  you  why: 


Because  we  are  dealing  to- 
day in — and  you  will  be 
dealing  with  it  when  you 
are  deliberating — with  a 
man  who  lives  in  your  so- 
ciety. He  may  not  live  in 
your  community  but  he  lives 
here  in  the  United  States. 
He  is  no  different  than  any- 
body else.  Just  because  he 
may  believe  in  a  different 
religious  aspect,  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  it,  or 
because  he  may  be  of  a 
different  race,  that  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it. 


O'Donell,  let's  go  downstairs.  O'Donell's  mocking 
sneer.  Nah.  I  doan  wanna  go  downstairs.  I'm  gonna 
stay  here  with  the  girls. 

Charlie  had  pulled  him  up  to  a  sitting  position. 
Come  on,  O'Donell,  you  can't  be  in  here.  Nah.  Who 
says  I  can't.  I  do  what  I  like.  I  grabbed  his  other 
arm  and  we  yanked  him  to  his  feet.  O'Donell  tried 
to  throw  us  off  but  we  held  on.  Come  on,  O'Donell. 
We  don't  belong  here.  This  is  the  girls'  party.  Look 
at  Susie..  You  love  her,  don't  you?  Do  you  want  to 
spoil  her  party?  I  looked  at  Susan.  She  was  watch- 
ing us  silently,  curiously.  We  pulled  O'Donell  out 
the  door.  He  was  struggling  but  not  too  hard.  We 
hustled  him  to  the  other  end  of  the  hallway  and 
stopped. 

Goddammit,  O'Donell,  knock  it  off.  You  have  no 
right  to  butt  in  there. 

Charlie  and  I  were  towering  over  him.  He  was 
shrinking  back  from  us,  his  eyes  glaring,  his  lips 
drawn  back  in  animal  rage.  I  had  never  seen  such  a 
visage  of  evil.  He  gnashed  his  teeth.  He  had  shrunk 
in  size  and  was  crouching,  possessed  with  malice. 
Shocking  awful  evil.  Cornered  rat,  cornered  rat  was 
running  through  my  mind. 

Neah.  Neah.  Mocking  whine.  Who  are  you  to  say 
what  is  right?  Maybe  I  know  what's  right  for  those 
girls.  Pampered  middle-class  dears  in  there  watch- 
ing television  and  playing  records,  growing  up  to 
be  miserable  middle-class  bitches.  Maybe  the 
greatest  thing  that  can  happen  to  them  in  their  life 
is  for  me  to  stir  them  up  a  little. 

O'Donell's  words  hit  my  empty  mind  like 
hammer  strokes.  Stunned  me.  My  God,  maybe  he's 
right.  What  reason,  real  reason  do  I  have  to  inter- 
fere? It's  my  own  dirty  mind.  I  was  racking  my 
brain  looking  for  a  moral  rebuttal.  I  was  on  Mars, 
you  understand,  looking  down  at  earth,  seeing  in  a 
flash  the  absurdity  of  social  fears,  taboos,  the  insane 
rituals  that  enslave  mankind,  the  horrid  middle- 
class  fear.  The  fear.  The  fear.  Did  I  want  to 
descend  to  Main  Street  and  protect  tribal  codes? 
Identify  with  the  New  England  middle  class?  Share 
their  insane  terror  of  non-conformity?  Their  fear?  I 
felt  somehow  that  what  O'Donell  was  doing  was 
wrong  but  I  couldn't  tell  him  why.  My  mind  had 
been  purged  of  cliche  and  irrational  belief.  The 


November  1960  00    99 


beautiful,  pure  empty  mind  faced  with  the  existen- 
tial moment.  The  moral  crisis.  Why  shouldn't 
O'Donell  do  what  he  wanted?  Who  could  tell  in  the 
long  run  whether  his  plan  would  or  would  not  be 
good?  He  might  be  the  sharp  Zen  master  to  shake 
the  girls  out  of  middle-class  shackles. 

I  turned,  puzzled,  to  Charlie.  He  was  standing, 
holding  O'Donell's  arm.  His  face  was  dazed.  Tell 
him,  Charlie,  why  he  shouldn't  go  into  the  girls' 
room.  Charlie  stared  at  me.  I  ...  I  don't  know 
why  it's  wrong  for  him  to  go  there. 

I  could  tell  that  Charlie  was  going  through  the 
same  moral  search.  Listen,  Charlie.  Don't  you  think 
it's  wrong  for  him  to  go  back  in  the  girls'  room? 
Charlie  nodded  decisively.  Yes.  I  know  it's  wrong. 
Well,  Charlie,  tell  him  why  it's  wrong.  Again  the 
puzzled,  helpless  look.  I  ...  I  ...  I  can't  tell 
him.  I  don't  know  why.  I  can't  think  of  any  reason. 

Plunged  back  into  the  cosmic  vacuum.  My  mind 
ran  through  a  hundred  conventional,  cliche  reasons 
and  rejected  them.  O'Donell  was  smiling  with  mean 
triumph.  You  see,  you  can't  tell  me  I'm  wrong.  Do 
you  want  to  set  yourselves  up  as  the  great  moral- 
ists? Telling  me  about  your  miserable  shoulds  and 
shouldn'ts.  O'Donell  made  a  move  down  the  hall. 
Charlie  and  I  grabbed  him. 

Wait  a  minute.  I  know  you  shouldn't  go  there.  I 
can't  tell  you  why,  but  I  know  you're  wrong. 

It  was  all  perfectly  clear  to  me.  We  were  re- 
capitulating the  moral  struggles  of  the  human  race. 
We  were  the  first  and  only  men  on  earth  and  we 
were  faced  with  the  first  ethical  decision.  Of  course 
we  could  use  force.  Charlie  and  I— the  first  cosmic 
police  force— could  bend  his  arms  and  drag  him— 
the  first  and  eternal  criminal— away  and  overpower 
him.  By  force.  But  why?  What  justification  besides 
force?  It  was  the  first  moral  choice  of  my  life.  The 
first  time  I  was  faced  with  a  fresh,  ethical  cross- 
roads. There  was  no  learned,  easy  motto  to  parrot. 
Ethics  had  to  be  built  right  up  from  scratch  and  it 
had  to  be  right  not  in  terms  of  revealed  dogma,  or 
fear  of  punishment,  but  in  terms  of  the  basic  issue. 
Now  what  was  the  basic  issue?  What  is  the  un- 
assailable first  assumption?  Suddenly  it  came  to  me. 
Moses  on  the  mountain.  A  beautiful  bolt  of  Tight- 
ness. 


When  we  live  here  in  this 
United  States,  every  law 
that  is  written  on  the  books 
applies  equally  to  us  and 
we  must  live  by  them. 


And  the  reason  that  this 
case  is  important  and  must 
be  taken  so  importantly  is 
because  you  are  dealing 
with  a  man  who  has  taken 
this  stand  during  the  time 
that  he  testified  and  told 
you,  "My  name  is  Dr.  Timo- 
thy Leary  and  that  I  am  a 
psychologist,  that  I  know  it 
is  wrong  to  possess  mari- 
juana, but  I  know  that  there 
are  certain  ways  that  I  can 
possess  it  legally  and  I 
know  that  if  I  had  applied 
for  such  relief  that  I  proba- 
bly would  not  have  been 
granted  it  because  they 
would  have  conducted  in- 
vestigations up  in  Mill- 
brook." 


And  he  tells  you  that  de- 
spite all  of  these  things, 
"I  am  more  than  the  law:  I 
am  Dr.  Timothy  Leary  and 
the  law  does  not  apply  to 
me." 


And  that  is  why  this  case  is 
so  important,  because  he  is 
not  above  the  law.  None  of 
us  are. 


100  00    Beyond  the  Good  and  Evil  Game 


Congress  enacted  these 
laws  in  this  book  and  they 
enacted  the  laws  concern- 
ing marijuana  because  they 
felt  that  it  was  an  immense 
danger  and  that  is  why  it 
was  there. 


Congress  also  recognized 
that  there  are  uses  that  are 
good  for  marijuana  but  that 
in  order  to  experiment  with 
it,  as  he  says,  or  to  research 
with  it,  as  he  says,  he  is  a 
researcher,  you  must  be  li- 
censed. 


And  the  government  will  not 
allow  somebody  irresponsi- 
ble to  be  licensed.  And  I 
think  that  he  is  irresponsible 
and  I  believe  that  is  why  he 
could  not  be  licensed  and 
had  never  made  an  applica- 
tion for  it. 


What  about  the  facts  in  this 
case? 


He  has  admitted  to  you  that 
he  smokes  marijuana.  He 
told  you  that  in  1964  or 
1965,  the  first  time  he  ever 
touched  marijuana  was  in 
India. 


1*11  tell  you  why  you  can't  go  into  Susan's  room. 
Because  it  is  her  trip,  her  territory,  her  party,  and 
because  she  doesn't  want  you  there.  You  have  the 
right  to  do  anything  you  want  to  so  long  as  you 
don't  lay  your  trip  on  anyone  else.  No  one  has 
the  right  to  force  himself  on  someone  else  against 
his  will.  I  was  speaking  slowly  with  the  greatest 
seriousness.  When  I  finished,  Charlie  shouted,  Yes, 
of  course,  that's  exactly  right.  You  can't  go  there 
because  the  girls  don't  want  you.  Do  your  own 
thing.  Let  them  do  their  thing. 

Tremendous  flood  of  relief.  The  first  ethical  law 
had  been  forged.  Moses  smiles.  There  was  a  right- 
not  based  on  force,  not  based  on  fear,  not  based  on 
irrational  taboo  or  custom  or  dogma.  But  based  on 
cellular  equality.  Mutual  respect.  Charlie  and  I 
were  nodding  at  each  other  happily.  O'Donell  was 
making  a  mocking  growling  noise  and  suddenly  he 
burst  out  of  our  grasp  and  started  down  the  hall. 
We  grabbed  him  and  pulled  him  back  and  around 
the  corner  to  the  north  wing  of  the  house  far  away 
from  the  girls. 

O'Donell  was  seething  with  futile  rage.  Again  the 
rat-face  and  fangs,  and  his  face  even  seemed  gray 
and  furry.  We  stood  there  blocking  his  way,  argu- 
ing. You're  cops.  All  cops  are  the  same.  Telling  me 
what  I  can't  do.  Charlie  and  I  were  reasoning  with 
him.  Why  don't  we  go  back  downstairs  and  have 
fun  the  way  we  were?  Charlie  was  pleading.  He 
had  been  swayed  by  O'Donell's  violent  rebuttal. 
We  got  no  place.  We  were  spoilsport,  busybody 
policemen  and  O'Donell  was  going  to  have  his  own 
way.  What  can  we  do?  Charlie  was  looking  at  me 
pleading. 

Suddenly  I  felt  a  moral  impatience  with  Charlie. 
He  was  no  longer  the  wise,  Olympian  clown  god. 
He  was  a  whining,  begging  boy  who  had  talked  me 
into  giving  him  the  pills  and  caused  all  this  mess. 
Goddammit,  Charlie.  See  what  you  did  giving  out 
the  pills  that  way?  I  never  wanted  you  to  start  this 
mess.  You  were  the  big  shot  and  it's  your  responsi- 
bility. 

Now  Charlie  was  mad.  Oh?  It's  my  responsibility, 
is  it?  Well,  I  quit!  I  resign!  You're  twice  my  age  and 
you're  twice  as  smart  as  I  am  and  you  handle  it.  I 


November  1960  00    101 


quit!  Charlie  dropped  O'Donell's  arm  and  started 
down  the  back  stairs  to  the  kitchen.  Good,  said 
O'Donell,  all  the  cops  quit  and  now  I'm  going  back 
to  see  the  girls.  O'Donell  started  down  the  north- 
wing  hallway  and  Charlie  was  moving  down  the 
stairs.  I  was  panicked.  I  could  follow  O'Donell  and 
leap  on  him  and  wrestle  him  back,  but  I  feared  the 
noise.  I  was  obsessed  by  the  dread  of  disturbing 
the  girls.  Fear  of  a  scandal.  I  called  down  the 
stairs.  Now  I  was  pleading.  Okay,  Charlie.  It's  not 
your  responsibility.  But  as  one  friend  to  another, 
as  one  human  being  to  another,  will  you  help  me 
keep  him  away  from  the  girls? 

Charlie  looked  up  in  my  eyes.  We  both  under- 
stood. Responsibility  and  roles  were  nonsensical 
and  Charlie  had  been  right  to  see  through  this  and 
reject  it.  Under  the  mushrooms  there  aren't  roles 
and  rituals.  But  the  appeal  to  him  as  man  to  man 
couldn't  be  dismissed.  Charlie  bounded  back  up 
and  ran  to  the  corner  of  the  hall.  He  grabbed 
O'Donell's  arm.  O'Donell  snarled  and  tried  to  push 
past.  Charlie  laughed,  ominous,  confident.  Oh,  little 
man,  you  want  to  get  rough  with  me.  Football 
Charlie  was  a  giant  pushing  back  the  tiny  foe. 
Don't  try  to  pull  any  force,  O'Donell,  because  that 
just  won't  work. 

The  three  of  us  standing  in  the  north-wing  hall- 
way. O'Donell  sunk  in  bitter  passivity.  He  was  still 
muttering  about  cops.  Need  for  someone  present 
who  was  not  under  the  drugs.  We  were  still  the 
only  three  men  in  the  universe  and  we  needed  help. 
Then  I  thought  of  Rhona.  Charlie,  go  up  and  wake 
Rhona.  Tell  her  we  need  her  down  here  badly. 
Charlie  nodded  and  started  down  the  hall.  He 
walked  sheepishly  and  I  shouted  to  him  ( again  sore 
about  his  giving  out  the  mushrooms  irresponsibly), 
Ah,  hah,  you're  guilty,  aren't  you?  I  was  happy  to 
see  him  guilty  at  waking  his  wife  and  exposing  her 
to  this  drug  mess.  I  was  happy  because  it  made  me 
right  and  him  wrong. 

Rhona's  face  was  pinched  and  sour.  She  was 
blinking  at  the  light.  I  was  glad  to  see  her.  Rhona,  a 
terrible  thing  has  happened.  She  was  cool  and 
businesslike.  What's  so  terrible?  I  explained  the 
situation.  First  of  all,  you  must  realize  that  the 


This  is  research?  This  is  a 
man  who  tells  you  that  "I 
am  above  the  law." 


What  kind  of  a  man  are  you 
dealing  with?  What  kind  of 
a  man  do  you  have  before 
you  here  today? 


You  have  a  man  that  says, 
"I  believe  in  bringing  up  my 
children  the  old-fashioned 
way,"  and  the  "old-fash- 
ioned way,"  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen, 


is  to  expose  them  to  mari- 
juana, expose  them  to  these 
other  drugs  that  he  has  no 
right  to  dispense.  And  that 
is  what  we  have  here. 


Is  that  irresponsibility? 


I  can  think  of  no — no  other 
situation  that  can  be  more 
irresponsible. 


Mr.  Fitzgibbon:  If  Your 
Honor  please.  I  thought  on 
the  question  of  religion  we 
weren't  going  to  talk  on  it. 


The  Court:  Religion? 


Mr.  Fitzgibbon:  The  right  to 
bring  up  our  children. 


102  00    Beyond  the  Good  and  Evil  Game 


Mr.  Blask:  Now,  getting 
back  to  the  fact  as  it  re- 
lates to  Dr.  Leary  and  this 
marijuana,  as  we  are  deal- 
ing with  here  today — 


and  you  recognize  it's  not 
a  question  of  the  quantity, 
because  if  we  wanted  to 
railroad  him  into  being  pun- 
ished, we  could  have  manu- 
factured something 


— and  I  think  you  realize 
that  we  are  bringing  you  the 
honest  facts.  That's  all 
there  was,  was  something 
about  a  half  an  ounce. 


The  question  of  the  amount 
has  nothing  to  do  with  it — 
nothing  whatsoever. 


What  did  this  man  admit  to 
doing? 


Whether  we 
value  or  not 
he  obtained 
in  New  York 
it  from  New 
Texas.  He 
that.  There 
about  it. 


take  it  at  face 
,  he  admits  that 

the  marijuana 
;  he  transported 
York  to  Laredo, 

has  admitted 
is  no  question 


He  did  not  have  the  proper 
order  forms.  There  is  no 
question  about  that. 


But  he  won't  get  a  license 
because  he  knows  they 
won't  give  it  to  him  and  he 
secretes  the  marijuana. 


That  is  the  responsible  per- 
son for  you. 


three  of  us  have  taken  a  bigger  dose  of  these  pills 
than  anyone  in  the  world.  Rhona  was  still  cool.  So 
what's  so  bad  about  that? 

Then  I  told  her  about  the  scene  in  the  girls'  room 
and  how  O'Donell  insisted  on  going  back.  Rhona 
listened  thoughtfully  and  we  were  all  watching  her. 
She  became  the  great  judge  and  law-giver. 

Who  says  I  shouldn't  do  what  I  want  to  do.  But, 
teen-age  girls!  Susan's  party!  We  were  pleading  our 
cases.  Rhona  listened.  The  hallway  was  shadowy,  a 
dim  cave  deep  in  the  underworld.  We  finished. 

Finally  the  silence  breaks.  Truth  speaks. 

Of  course  you  can't  go  in  there,  O'Donell! 

And  his  voice  coming  back,  mocking  Rhona's 
prim,  proper  British,  Nyayah.  Why  can't  I  go  in 
there?  What  law  says  I  can't  and  who's  law?  My 
tight  muscles  loosened  when  Rhona  had  pro- 
nounced the  verdict,  but  now  they  tightened  again. 
Could  she  give  a  reason,  a  rule  that  went  beyond 
the  transient  rules  of  the  games  that  we  all  knew 
we  didn't  have  to  play? 

And  the  reply,  cool  and  so  convincing.  Impos- 
sible to  think  of  going  in  there,  O'Donell.  Groivn- 
ups  don't  pin  pajama  parties!  It  just  isn't  done. 

Wham!  What  a  judgment.  What  legal  logic. 
Moses,  take  your  stone  tablets.  Justice  Brandeis, 
forget  your  Blackstone.  Rhona's  words.  Pinnacle  of 
legal  reasoning.  Rhona,  just  two  years  out  of  teen- 
age herself,  knew  the  rule— as  relentless  as  Three 
strikes  you're  out.  Adults  don't  infringe  on  the 
trip  of  the  adolescent.  I  was  swinging  clear  and 
happy.  And  loving  Rhona.  Admiration.  O'Donell 
was  stunned.  You  could  see  his  tense  squirming 
body  begin  to  relax.  Looking  down  at  the  floor. 
Nodding  his  head.  We  stood  for  a  long  time  and 
then  Rhona,  briskly,  case-dismissed,  no-nonsense 
voice,  said  All  right.  All  of  you  come  down  to  the 
kitchen  and  I'll  brew  up  some  tea  and  cookies.  The 
calm,  sure  voice  of  the  British  empire.  Righto! 
Good  show!  Well  done!  Now  let's  have  tea. 

Rhona  started  down  the  back  stairs.  Charlie  and  I 
stood  back  waiting  for  O'Donell  to  go  next.  We 
were  all  thinking  the  same  thing.  O'Donell  made  an 
impatient  gesture  and  Charlie  glanced  at  me  and 
went  down.  I  followed.  We  were  all  listening  and 


104  00    Beyond  the  Good  and  Evil  Game 


But  what  does  he  do  when 
he  is  finally  exposed  and 
they  find  out  about  it? 


He  makes  a  joke  about  it. 
Now,  I  don't  mean  to  shout, 
for  shouting's  sake,  but  I 
feel  so  strongly  about  this 
case  and  his  acts  that  I  can't 
help  myself,  and  I  hope  that 
you  will  forgive  me. 


But  when  anybody  makes 
fun  and  thinks  it  such  a 
joke  to  possess  marijuana 
illegally — I  think  it  is  im- 
portant and  I  think  that  you 
ought  to  consider  it  impor- 
tant— 


and  I  ask  that  when  you 
deliberate,  you  look  at 
those  counts  two  and  three, 
and  I  think  that  you  will 
find  that  he  transported  that 
marijuana  against  the  laws 
of  the  United  States;  he  did 
not  pay  the  tax  on  it;  that 
on  count  two,  when  he 
found  out  that  that  mari- 
juana was  in  his  posses- 
sion, he  knew  it. 


The  Court:  Dr.  Leary,  you 
and  your  counsel  will  step 
up  here,  please,  sir. 


Your  case — the  situation  in 
which  you  find  yourself 
here  gives  a  great  deal  of 
concern.  You  are,  of  course, 
as  I  am  sure  you  recog- 
nize, an  unusual  type  of 
personality,  unconventional 
in  many  respects. 


turning  our  heads  to  see  if  O'Donell  would  come. 
He  paused  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  We  walked 
slowly  down.  Then  he  took  two  steps  and  stood, 
playing  with  us.  I  looked  back  and  saw  the  sly,  one- 
up  grin,  lips  drawn  back  from  the  teeth.  When  I 
turned  the  corner  of  the  stairs  there  was  silence  and 
then  slowly  O'Donell  came  down. 

In  terms  of  a  human  situation,,  one  is  handling  wild, 
intractable  people.  In  such  a  case  one's  purpose  will 
he  achieved  if  one  behaves  with  decorum.  Pleas- 
ant manners  succeed  even  with  irritable  people. 

(IChingX) 

Rhona  was  putting  the  kettle  on  the  stove.  Hey, 
Rhona,  go  up  and  check  on  the  girls,  will  you?  All 
right.  Rut  why  don't  you  men  start  cleaning  up  this 
mess. 

I  was  ripped  apart  with  guilt  over  lousy-father 
irresponsible  stuff  and  scared  of  O'Donell.  He  had 
a  wild  gleam  and  was  muttering  to  himself  and 
moving  with  a  clumsy  madman  plod.  I  feared  him 
and  sensed  the  insanity  and  understood  the  in- 
sanity and  his  confusion  and  sympathized  with  the 
confusion.  Why?  Who  makes  these  rules?  And 
why?  And  why  do  they  hurt  and  humiliate?  He  just 
didn't  understand  the  social  game  and  was  going 
through  motions  that  were  meaningless.  Rinsing 
dishes.  He  wasn't  happy  about  it.  We  could  hear 
him  muttering  and  the  dishes  breaking.  I  felt  a 
closeness  with  him.  We  were  all  prisoners  in  a 
concentration  camp  of  our  own  making.  Pushed 
and  punished  by  senseless  rules.  I  went  over  to  get 
the  garbage  can  and  quickly  leaned  over  to  him. 
Two  Jews  in  the  Nazi  prison.  Look,  I  whispered, 
the  whole  world  is  crazy.  The  whole  system  is 
insane.  Rut  don't  try  to  fight  it  now.  Play  along. 
We  got  ourselves  into  it.  It's  the  only  way. 

O'Donell  shot  me  an  understanding  glance  and 
nodded.  Yeah,  you're  right,  he  whispered.  We'll  play 
it  out. 

I  went  outside  to  empty  the  cans,  saying  to 
myself,  yeah,  the  world  is  crazy.  They  want  order 
and  I  can't  think  of  anything  better  than  order  so 
let's  clean  up.  And  anyway  someone  will  have  to 


November  1960  00    105 


clean  up  if  we  don't  and  that's  doing  good  and 
makes  some  sense. 

When  I  came  back  Charlie  was  standing  by  the 
stove,  hands  on  hips,  smiling  and  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  Look!  O'Donell,  what  are  you  doing? 
O'Donell  was  cleaning  up  the  table.  He  had  a  big 
brown  bag  and  was  dumping  everything  in  the 
garbage— food,  glasses,  silver,  cigarette  lighter.  The 
voice  stopped  him  and  he  stood  holding  the  bag, 
grinning.  I  took  the  bag  from  him  and  laughed. 
O'Donell  just  won't  play  the  game.  With  that  stupid 
look  and  moronic  grin,  he  is  making  a  joke  of  the 
whole  business.  It  was  kind  of  funny.  Next  the  roast 
chickens,  sitting  on  serving  plates,  untouched. 
O'Donell  took  an  ashtray  and  dumped  it  on  the  first 
chicken. 

Don't  throw  ashes  on 

My  fresh  roast  chicken. 

There's  no  celestial  housemaid. 
He  was  wrong.  But  why?  In  the  great  cosmic 
scheme  of  things  why  not  throw  silver  in  the  gar- 
bage and  ashes  on  the  fresh  roast  chicken?  Why?  I 
stood  there  holding  the  garbage  sack  in  my  hands, 
brow  furrowed.  Why?  Why  not?  Why?  Then  I 
understood.  It's  okay  not  to  play  the  game  if  you 
are  willing  to  deal  yourself  out  of  the  game.  Don't 
play  house  if  you  don't  want  to  play  house.  But 
don't  live  in  the  house  and  expect  the  rewards  of 
the  house  game.  Yeah,  O'Donell.  Sure.  Empty  ashes 
on  the  chicken  if  you  don't  mind  eating  chicken 
with  ashes.  But  don't  infringe  on  others'  games. 
Don't  throw  out  Charlie's  lighter  and  the  family 
silver.  And  don't  break  up  the  teen-age  girls'  game. 
Break  up.  Destroy.  I  remember  him  slashing  the 
lamp  cord  with  the  knife  and  spitting  on  the  carpet. 
Suppose  your  game  is  destroy.  I  thought  of  all  the 
poor  kids  who  had  been  left  out  of  the  rich  games 
they  saw  all  around  them.  Why?  Explain  it.  Why? 
Because  some  games,  most  games,  keep  others  out. 
Not  because  the  kid  can't  play  well  enough.  Not 
because  he  isn't  willing  to  learn.  But  because  no 
reason.  So  they  create  the  game  of  destroy.  If  you 
play  the  game  of  keep-out,  then  you  provoke  the 
game  of  destroy.  Smash  the  middle  class.  Down 
with  the  rich.  Slash  the  Cadillac  tires.  Loot  and 


It  is  my  duty,  in  due  course, 
to  impose  sentence  for 
these  offenses. 


Is  there  anything  you  want 
to  tell  me  at  this  time  in 
your  own  behalf  or  in  miti- 
gation or  extenuation? 


Defendant  Leary:  No,  sir. 


The  Court:  In  that  case  un- 
der count  two  I  impose  a 
period  of  confinement  of 
twenty  years  and  a  fine  of 
$20,000. 


On  count  three  I  impose  a 
period  of  confinement  of 
ten  years  and  a  fine  of 
$20,000. 


You  may  remain  at  large 
on  bond  until  such  time  as 
you  receive  instructions 
through  the  District  At- 
torney as  to  where  to  report 
for  this  examination  that  I 
have  in  mind. 


Susan,  come  forward. 


On  your  plea  of  not  guilty, 
I  have  found  you  guilty  of 
— on  the  third  count  of  this 
indictment. 


106  00    Beyond  the  Good  and  Evil  Game 


I  hope  you  will  understand 
that  throughout  this  trial 
and  now,  and  insofar  as 
this  court  has  jurisdiction 
of  this  matter  in  the  future, 
my  desire  will  be  to  take 
the  action  which  is  for  your 
own  best  interests. 


It  occurs  to  me  that  you 
have  been  raised  in  very 
unusual  surroundings  and 
I  cannot,  in  my  own  think- 
ing, measure  your  conduct 
by  the  same  standard  that 
I  might  measure  another 
eighteen-year-old. 


trample  the  Roman  villa.  Rape  the  Alabama  white 
woman.  Jettison  the  Landlord's  silver.  Mangle  the 
pajama  party  of  the  sleek,  smug  suburban  teen-age 
girls.  We  all  want  to  violate  that  fence  that  keeps 
us  out. 

Heaven  and  the  lake  show  a  difference  of  eleva- 
tion that  inheres  in  the  natures  of  the  two,  hence  no 
envy  arises.  Among  mankind  also  there  are  neces- 
sarily differences  of  elevation;  it  is  impossible  to 
bring  about  universal  equality.  But  it  is  important 
that  differences  in  social  rank  should  not  be  arbi- 
trary and  unjust,  for  if  this  occurs,  envy  and  class 
struggle  are  the  inevitable  consequences.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  external  differences  in  rank  correspond 
with  differences  in  inner  worth,  and  if  inner  worth 
forms  the  criterion  of  external  rank,  people  acqui- 
esce and  order  reigns  in  society.  ( I  Ching  X ) 


In  order  to  give  me  the  best 
understanding  on  the  im- 
position of  sentence  in  your 
case,  I  order  you  committed 
to  the  custody  of  the  At- 
torney General  for  observa- 
tion and  study  at  an  ap- 
propriate classification  cen- 
ter or  agency,  with  report 
to  be  made  to  the  court  of 
its  findings  within  a  period 
of  sixty  days. 


This  is  what  I  believe  ulti- 
mately will  be  to  your  ad- 
vantage. 


Anything   further? 


Mr.  Blask:  We  have  nothing 
further. 


Rhona  was  back.  I  had  visions  of  outraged  virtue. 
Drugged  men  wrestling  and  lurching  through  the 
pajama  party.  What  would  they  tell  their  fierce 
social  mothers?  Were  they  terrified?  Was  Susan 
crushed?  Rhona  was  calm  and  casual.  Oh,  they're 
doing  fine.  Pillow  fights  and  rock-and-roll  and  only 
worried  about  when  we'll  make  them  turn  off  the 
record  player. 

Rhona  was  at  one  end  of  the  table.  O'Donell  at 
the  other.  Charlie  and  I  facing  each  other.  I  wanted 
Rhona's  approval  for  something,  for  everything.  Oh, 
Goddess,  hear  my  story.  Rhona  was  sleepy  but 
resigned  to  the  role  and  interested  in  my  approval 
and  my  wisdom.  I  was  ready  to  discuss  how  we 
had  to  leave  Newton;  drugs  at  a  teen-age  party. 
Guilt.  Guilt.  Guilt.  Rhona  was  worried  about  the 
tea. 

Charlie!  You  know  you  must  scald  the  pot  before 
you  put  the  tea  in.  Wise  words.  Five  hundred  years 
of  solid  empire.  That  great  little  island  and  the 
game  they  invented  and  believed  in  and  how  they 
made  it  stand  up.  Society  is  a  crazy  made-up  game. 
Riddled  with  confusion  and  fear  and  conflicting 
guilt  and  no  one's  gods  come  through  and  when 
the  whole  thing  begins  to  fall  apart  and  you  know 
it's  falling  apart,  then  comes  the  clear,  calm  voice. 


November  1960  00    107 


Scald  the  pot.  Okay.  Somewhere  there's  an  ancient  The  Court:  In  that  case, 
game  which  keeps  going  and  at  the  moment  I  was  ™e  wiM  recess  under  the 
glad  for  it. 

The  domestic  routine.  The  kitchen.  The  boiling 
of  water.  The  washing.  The  eternal  soft  voice  of  the 

young  mother  naively  bored  with  male  speculation      (Court  recessed  on  March 
and  male  struggle.  The  soothing,  centering  rhythm      11,1 966) 
of  family  life.  The  rite  to  heal  wrong.  00 


treading.  Treading  upon  the  tail 

of  the  tiger. 
It  does  not  bite  the  man.  Success. 

(IChing) 


CO 


H 


The  Blueprint  to  Turn-On  the  World : 


December  1960 
Guide:  allen  Ginsberg 
Oracle:  L 
The  Caldron 


The  Clinging,  Fire 


The  Gentle,  Wind,  Wood 


Fire  over  wood: 

The  image  of  the  caldron. 

Thus  the  superior  man  consolidates  his  fate 

By  making  his  position  correct. 

(IChing) 


a 

o 

O 
f 


TRIP  6 


ALLEN  GINSBERG 
DECEMBER  1960: 

Here  is  a  statement  for  San- 
doz.  Is  it  okay? 


Have  had  experience  with 
mescaline,  LSD-25,  and 
psilocybin.  The  mushroom 
synthetic  seems  to  me  the 
easiest  on  the  body  physi- 
cally, and  the  most  control- 
lable in  dosage. 


The  effects  are  generally 
similar,  subjectively.  Psilo- 
cybin seems  to  me  to  be 
some  sort  of  psychic  god- 
send. 


It  offers  unparalleled  oppor- 
tunity to  catalyze  aware- 
ness of  otherwise  uncon- 
scious psychic  processes. 
To  widen  the  area  of  hu- 
man consciousness. 


To  deepen  reification  of 
ideas  and  identification  of 
real  objects.  To  perceive 
the  inner  organization  of 
natural  objects  and  human 
art-works. 


By  this  time  there  was  in  existence  an  informal 
international  network  of  scientists  and  scholars  who 
had  taken  the  trip  and  who  foresaw  the  powerful 
effect  that  the  new  alkaloids  would  have  on  human 
culture.  The  members  of  this  group  differed  in  age, 
temperament,  and  had  widely  differing  ideas  about 
tactics,  but  the  basic  vision  was  common  to  all — 
these  wondrous  plants  and  drugs  could  free  man's 
consciousness  and  bring  about  a  new  conception  of 
man,  his  psychology,  and  philosophy. 

There  was  Albert  Hoffman,  who  had  invented 
LSD,  who  dreamed  the  Utopian  dream,  but  who 
was  limited  by  the  cautious  politics  of  Sandoz 
Pharmaceuticals.  What  a  frustrating  web  his  genius 
had  woven  for  Sandoz.  How  could  a  medical-drug 
house  make  a  profit  on  a  revelation  pill? 

Sandoz  knew  they  had  patented  the  most  power- 
ful mind-changing  substance  known  to  man.  They 
spent  millions  to  promote  research  on  LSD.  They 
righteously  expected  to  make  millions  when  the 
psychiatric  profession  learned  how  to  use  LSD,  and 
they  were  continually  disappointed  to  discover  that 
human  society  didn't  want  to  have  its  mind 
changed,  didn't  want  to  touch  a  love-ecstasy  potion. 

In  1961  a  top  executive  of  Sandoz  leaned  across 
the  conference  table  and  said  to  me,  LSD  isn't  a 
drug  at  all.  It's  a  food.  Let's  bottle  it  in  Coca-Cola 
and  let  the  world  have  it.  And  his  legal  counsel 
frowned  and  said,  foods  still  come  under  the  juris- 
diction of  the  Food  and  Drug  Administration. 

By  1966,  when  LSD  was  crowding  Vietnam  for 
the  headlines,  officials  of  Sandoz  Pharmaceuticals 
were  groaning,  we  wish  we  had  never  heard  of 
LSD. 

I  do  really  wish  to  destroy  it!  cried  Frodo.  Or 
well,  to  have  it  destroyed.  I  am  not  made  for  peril- 

110 


December  1960  00    111 


ous  quests.  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  the  Ring!  Why 
did  it  come  to  me?  Why  was  I  chosen?  (The  Lord 
of  the  Rings ) 


To  enter  the  significance 
and  aesthetic  organization 
of  music,  painting,  poetry, 
architecture. 


The  story  of  Albert  Hoffman,  the  secret  behind 
his  wise  silence,  has  yet  to  be  told.  But  for  the 
moment  he  was  uneasily  forced  to  play  the  drug- 
company  researcher  game. 

There  were  the  detached  philosophers— Aldous 
Huxley,  Father  Murray,  Gerald  Heard,  Alan  Watts, 
Harry  Murray,  Robert  Gordon  Wasson— who  knew 
that  the  new  drugs  were  re-introducing  the  platonic- 
gnostic  vision.  These  men  had  read  their  theological 
history  and  understood  both  the  glorious  possibility 
and  the  angered  reaction  of  the  priestly  establish- 
ment. They  were  not  activists  but  sage  observers. 

Then  there  were  the  turned-on  doctors— psychia- 
trists who  had  taken  the  trip,  and  came  back  hop- 
ing to  fit  the  new  potions  into  the  medical  game. 
Humphrey  Osmond,  witty,  wise,  cultured,  had  in- 
vented the  name  psychedelic  and  tolerantly  won- 
dered how  to  introduce  a  harmony-ecstasy  drug 
into  an  aggressive-puritanical  social  order.  Sidney 
Cohen  and  Keith  Ditman  and  Jim  Watt  and  Abram 
Hofer  and  Nick  Chewelos  hoped  to  bring  about  a 
psychiatric  renaissance  and  a  new  era  of  mental 
health  with  the  new  alchemicals. 

And  there  was  that  strange,  intriguing,  delightful 
cosmic  magician  called  Al  Hubbard,  the  rum-drink- 
ing, swashbuckling,  Roman  Catholic  frontier  sales- 
man who  promoted  uranium  ore  during  the  40's 
and  who  took  the  trip  and  recognized  that  LSD 
was  the  fissionable  material  of  the  mind  and  who 
turned  on  Osmond  and  Hofer  to  the  religious  mys- 
tical meaning  of  their  psychotomimetic  drug.  Al 
Hubbard  set  out  to  turn-on  the  world  and  flew 
from  country  to  country  with  his  leather  bag  full  of 
drugs  and  claimed  to  have  turned-on  bishops  and 
obtained  nihil  obstat  from  Pope  John,  and  when  the 
medical  society  complained  that  only  doctors  could 
give  drugs,  bought  himself  a  doctor's  degree  from  a 
Kentucky  diploma  mill  and  swept  through  northern 
California  turning-on  scientists  and  professors  and 
God-seekers. 


It  seems  to  make  philos- 
ophy make  sense.  It  aids 
consciousness  to  contem- 
plate itself  and  serve  some 
of  the  most  delightful  func- 
tions of  the  mind. 


As  if,  turning  up  the  volume 
on  a  receiving  set,  back- 
ground and  FM  stations  can 
be  heard.  The  effects  are 
not  unnatural. 


I  have  experienced  similar 
things  without  use  of  chemi- 
cal catalysts,  and  corre- 
spond to  what  I,  as  a  poet, 
have  called  previously  aes- 
thetic, poetic,  transcen- 
dental or  mystical  aware- 
ness. 


A  kind  of  useful,  practical 
cosmic  consciousness.  I 
think  it  will  help  mankind 
to  grow. 

00 


112  00   To  Turn-On  the  World 


ALLEN  GINSBERG 
JANUARY  1961: 

I  spoke  to  Wilhelm  De 
Kooning  yesterday  and  he 
was  ready  to  turn  on,  so 
please  drop  him  an  invita- 
tion too. 


I  figure  Kline,  De  Kooning, 
Monk  and  Gillespie  are  the 
most  impressive  quartet 
imaginable  for  you  to  turn- 
on  at  the  moment,  so  will 
leave  it  at  that  for  awhile, 
till  they  can  be  taken  care 
of. 


I  won't  send  you  new 
names  and  work-trouble  for 
awhile.  Hope  you  can  get 
these  four  letters  off. 


I  also  wrote  Osmond  and 
Huxley  asking  them  to  con- 
nect Burroughs  with  Heim, 
or  anyone  in  Paris.  None  of 
my  business  actually,  but 
Koestler  always  struck  me 
as  a  little  ftard-hearted 
somehow. 


Hate  myself  to  have  him  as  a 
final  curandero.  That  is,  be- 
ing an  intellectual,  he  tends 
to  organize  a  polemic-dog- 
matic-mental system  around 
experience. 


As  in  his  essay  on  Zen, 
which  is  very  intelligent,  but 
not  so  magnanimous.  But 
by  all  means  send  him 
batches  to  hand  out. 


And  when  the  day  of  Pentecost  was  fully  come, 
they  were  all  with  one  accord  in  one  place.  And 
suddenly  there  came  a  sound  from  heaven  as  of  a 
rushing  mighty  wind,  and  it  filled  all  the  house 
where  they  were  sitting.  And  there  appeared  unto 
them  cloven  tongues  like  as  of  fire,  and  it  sat  upon 
each  of  them.  And  they  were  all  filled  with  the  Holy 
Ghost,  and  began  to  speak  with  other  tongues,  as 
the  spirit  gave  them  utterance.  And  they  were  all 
amazed,  and  were  in  doubt,  saying  one  to  another, 
what  meaneth  this?  Others  mocking  said,  these  men 
are  full  of  new  wine. 

Right  from  the  beginning  this  dedicated  group  of 
ring-bearers  was  rent  with  a  basic  disagreement. 
There  were  those  who  said  work  within  the  system. 
Society  has  assigned  the  administration  of  drugs  to 
the  medical  profession.  Any  non-doctor  who  gives 
or  takes  drugs  is  a  dope  fiend.  Play  ball  with  the 
system.  Medicine  must  be  the  vanguard  of  the 
psychedelic  movement.  Capture  the  medical  pro- 
fession. Cohen  and  Ditman  and  Al  Hubbard  and 
his  two  loyal,  gifted  lieutenants,  Willis  Harman  and 
Myron  Stolaroff,  warned  that  any  non-medical  use 
of  psychedelic  drugs  would  create  a  new  marijuana 
mess  and  set  back  research  into  the  new  utopia. 

The  medical  point  of  view  made  little  sense  to 
religious  philosophers.  Aldous  Huxley  called  the 
psychedelic  experience  a  gratuitous  grace.  His  vi- 
brant flame-colored  wife,  Laura,  agreed.  So,  in 
gentle  tones,  did  Huston  Smith  and  Alan  Watts  and 
Gerald  Heard. 

And  so  did  Allen  Ginsberg,  who  had  discovered 
the  Buddha  nature  of  drugs  with  Jack  Kerouac  and 
Gary  Snyder  and  Bill  Burroughs. 

I  had  been  visited  by  most  of  the  psychedelic 
eminences  by  this  time  and  was  under  steady  pres- 
sure to  make  the  Harvard  psychedelic  research  a 
kosher-medically-approved  project.  Everyone  was 
aware  of  the  potency  of  Harvard's  name.  Timothy, 
you  are  the  key  figure,  said  Dr.  Al  Hubbard;  I'm 
just  old  deputy-dog  Al  at  your  service.  But  the 
message  was  clear:  keep  it  respectable  and  medical. 

And  now  here  was  Allen  Ginsberg,  secretary 
general  of  the  world's  poets,  beatniks,  anarchists, 
socialists,  free-sex/love  cultists. 


December  1960  QO    113 


The  sunny  Sunday  afternoon  that  we  gave  Allen 
Ginsberg  the  mushrooms  started  slowly.  Rhona  and 
Charlie  were  down  in  the  kitchen  by  nine  to  start  a 
cycle  of  breakfasts.  First  there  were  Jack  Leary  and 
his  friend  Bobbie  who  had  spent  the  night.  Bobbie 
went  off  to  Mass.  When  I  came  down  I  found 
Donald,  an  uninvited  raccoon  hipster-painter  from 
New  York  solemnly  squatting  at  the  table  gnawing 
at  toast  and  bacon.  Frank  Barron  and  the  poets, 
Allen  Ginsberg  and  Peter  and  Lafcadio  Orlovsky 
remained  upstairs  and  we  moved  around  the 
kitchen  with  that  Sunday  morning  hush  not  want- 
ing to  wake  the  sleepers.  Lafcadio,  Peter's  brother, 
was  on  leave  from  a  mental  hospital. 

About  twelve-thirty  the  quiet  exploded  into  fam- 
ily noise.  Bobbie  was  back  from  church  where  he 
excitedly  had  told  his  father  about  the  party  we 
had  given  the  night  before  for  the  Harvard  football 
team  and  how  I  had  given  the  boys,  Bobbie  and 
Jack,  a  dollar  each  for  being  bartenders. 

I  toted  up  the  political  profit  and  loss  from  this 
development.  The  Harvard  football  team  rang  up  a 
sale.  But  the  boys  bartending?  Bobbie's  father  is 
Irish  so  that's  all  right.  All  okay. 

Then  wham,  the  door  opened  and  in  flooded 
Susan  Leary  with  three  teen-age  girls,  through  the 
kitchen,  upstairs  to  get  clothes,  down  to  make  a 
picnic  lunch,  up  again  for  records,  out  and  then 
back  for  the  ginger  ale. 

By  now  the  noise  had  filtered  upstairs  and  we 
could  hear  the  late  sleepers  moving  around  and  the 
bathroom  waters  running,  and  down  came  Frank 
Barron,  half -awake,  to  fry  codfish  cakes  for  his 
breakfast.  And  then,  Allen  Ginsberg  and  Peter. 
Allen  hopped  around  the  room  with  nearsighted 
crow  motions  cooking  eggs,  and  Peter  sat  silent 
watching. 

After  breakfast  the  poets  fell  to  reading  the 
Times  and  Frank  moved  upstairs  to  Susans  room 
to  watch  a  pro  football  game  on  TV  and  I  told 
Allen  to  make  himself  at  home  and  got  beers  and 
went  up  to  join  Frank.  Donald  the  painter  had  been 
padding  softly  around  the  house  watching  with  his 
big,  soft  creature  eyes  and  sniffing  in  corners  and  at 
the  bookcase  and  the  record  cabinets.  He  had  asked 
to  take  mushrooms  in  the  evening  and  was  looking 


So  H.S.  fears  the  peril  of 
mind  let  loose.  Well  I  agree 
with  you  generally.  But  I 
have  had  that  experience  of 
absolute  fear. 


Suppose  it  decides  not  to 
keep  the  body  going? — In 
Peru.  It  never  recurred,  but 
I  can't  guarantee  it  won't 
recur  to  me. 


That  is,  there  was  some- 
thing mysterious  happening 
beyond  what  I  know  and 
later  experienced.  Each  in- 
carnation is  different. 


But  at  the  time  I  was  sure 
that  if  I  really  let  go  I  would 
literally  die,  and  that  it 
might  be  a  good  idea.  To 
get  another  dimension. 


But  I  wasn't  so  positive  it 
was  a  good  idea.  Really 
fearfully  confused.  Maybe 
you  could  die,  like  a  yoga 
or  Buddha  or  something 
worse,  or  better?  Who 
knows? 


I  mean  who  knows  how 
deep  the  soul  goes  into  the 
universe  and  what  outright 
magic  it  can  work?  Like 
maybe  leaving  this  body 
and  going  to  a  God-world 
or  devil-world  body?  Liter- 
ally. 


114  00    To  Turn-On  the  World 


At  least  I  haven't  myself  sur- 
mounted that  superstition,  if 
it  is  superstition,  not  un- 
canny awareness.  So,  I  tend 
to  feel  mentally  a  hands- 
off  policy,  as  far  as  making 
final  judgment  of  what 
is  actually  psychologically 
happening  to  H.S. 


But  I  wasn't  there.  I  gener- 
ally agree  with  your  reac- 
tion, or  I  also  tend  to  have 
your  reaction — as  to  Barney 
or  H.S. 


Nonetheless,  my  knowledge 
of  fact  is  not  final.  I've  been 
operating  as  much  on  faith 
and  hope  in  a  way. 


Send  me  a  bill  for  the  mes- 
caline. No  need  for  you  to 
pay. 


No  news  yet  from  Cuba,  so 
I  think  it  safe  to  send  psilo- 
cybin  here.  I'll  call  you  be- 
fore I  leave,  which  may  yet 
be  another  week — if  at  all 
at  this  rate. 


Burroughs  is  in  Paris.  I 
wrote  Huxley  his  address 
today  with  an  explanatory 
note — but  if  you  have  any 
means  of  connecting  him 
with  Heim  or  anyone  there 
— could  you  do  so. 


for  records  of  Indian  peyote  drum  music.  We  told 
him  to  phone  around  to  the  local  libraries.  A  friend 
of  his,  an  anthropology  student,  could  possibly 
locate  some  Indian  records,  and  could  he  borrow 
the  car  and  go  to  Cambridge?  All  his  words  came 
up  halting,  labored,  serious,  and  I  said  sure  go 
ahead. 

During  the  game,  Jack  Leary  and  his  pals  came 
in  dressed  in  their  football  uniforms  and  watched 
the  action  for  a  while  and  then  got  bored  and  went 
up  to  the  third-floor  playroom.  We  kidded  them 
about  getting  suited  up  like  pigskin  warriors  and 
then  sitting  around  inside  and  not  playing.  After 
the  game  Frank  Barron  rounded  up  Charlie  and  the 
boys  and  we  went  out  behind  the  garage  and  had  a 
game  of  touch  football.  The  poets  declined  to  play. 
At  dusk  we  came  in  and  started  a  long  kitchen 
Sunday  supper  scene,  cold  ham  and  meat  pies, 
highballs  (but  not  for  the  poets).  It  was  an  agree- 
able kitchen  chaos  with  everyone  puttering  around. 
Rhona  and  Charlie  were  sick  with  stomach  flu  and 
headed  upstairs  early.  Lafcadio  had  stayed  in  bed 
most  of  the  afternoon  until  Allen  had  gone  up  to 
tell  him  to  come  down  and  he  sat  in  the  corner 
quiet,  impassive,  eerie,  probably  thinking  wonder- 
ful thoughts  about  the  Martians  landing  on  earth. 
He  nodded  every  time  we  offered  him  food,  and 
Allen  would  tell  him  to  put  his  plates  away  and  he 
would  obey  silently  and  mechanically.  After  the 
meal  we  asked  Jack  and  Bobbie  if  they  wanted  to 
play  catch  in  the  upstairs  hallway  with  Lafcadio 
and  they  said  sure  and  ran  off  with  Lafcadio  lum- 
bering after  them.  There  are  ball  marks  on  the 
white  ceiling  to  this  day  and  the  wall  lamp  has 
never  quite  worked  the  same,  but  Allen  said  that 
the  weekend  was  tremendous  therapy  for  Lafcadio. 
He  started  talking  more  and  it  kept  up  for  several 
weeks  after  they  left. 

Allen  Ginsberg,  hunched  over  a  teacup,  peering 
out  through  his  black-rimmed  glasses,  the  left  lens 
bisected  by  a  break,  started  telling  of  his  experi- 
ences with  Ayahuasca,  the  fabled  visionary  vine  of 
the  Peruvian  jungles.  He  had  followed  the  quest  of 
Bill  Burroughs,  sailing  south  for  new  realms  of 
consciousness,  looking  for  the  elixir  of  wisdom. 
Sitting,  sweating  with  heat,  lonely  in  a  cheap  hotel 


December  1960  QO    115 


in  Lima,  holding  a  wad  of  ether-soa*ked  cotton  to 
his  nose  with  his  left  hand  and  getting  high  and 
making  poetry  with  his  right  hand  and  then  travel- 
ing by  second-class  bus  with  Indians  up  through 
the  Cordillera  de  los  Andes  and  then  more  buses 
and  hitchhiking  into  the  Montana  jungles  and  shin- 
ing rivers,  wandering  through  steaming  equatorial 
forests.  Then  the  village  Pucalpa,  and  the  negotia- 
tions to  find  the  curandero,  paying  him  with  aguar- 
diente, and  the  ritual  itself,  swallowing  the  bitter 
stuff,  and  the  nausea  and  the  colors  and  the  drums 
beating  and  sinking  down  into  thingless  void,  into 
the  great  eye  that  brings  it  all  together,  and  the 
terror  of  the  great  snake  coming,  lying  on  the  earth 
floor  helpless  and  the  great  snake  coming.  The  old 
curandero,  wrinkled  face  bending  over  him  and 
Allen  telling  him,  culebra,  and  the  curandero  nod- 
ding clinically  and  blowing  a  puff  of  smoke  to  make 
the  great  snake  disappear  and  it  did. 

The  fate  of  fire  depends  on  wood;  as  long  as  there 
is  wood  below,  the  fire  burns  above.  It  is  the  same 
in  human  life;  there  is  in  man  likewise  a  fate  that 
lends  power  to  his  life.  ( I  Ching  L ) 

I  kept  asking  Allen  questions  about  the  curan- 
dero. I  wanted  to  learn  the  rituals,  to  find  out  how 
other  cultures  (older  and  wiser  than  ours)  had 
handled  the  visionary  business.  I  was  fascinated  by 
the  ritual  thing.  Ritual  is  to  the  science  of  con- 
sciousness what  experiment  is  to  external  science.  I 
was  convinced  that  none  of  our  American  rituals  fit 
the  mushroom  experience.  Not  the  cocktail  party. 
Not  the  psychiatrist.  Not  the  teacher-minister  role.  I 
was  impressed  by  what  Allen  said  about  his  own 
fear  and  sickness  whenever  he  took  drugs  and 
about  the  solace  and  comforting  strength  of  the 
curandero,  about  how  good  it  was  to  have  someone 
there  who  knew,  who  had  been  to  those  far  regions 
of  the  mind  and  could  tell  you  by  a  look,  by  a 
touch,  by  a  puff  of  smoke  that  it  was  all  right,  go 
ahead,  explore  the  strange  world,  it's  all  right,  you'll 
come  back,  it's  all  right,  I'm  here  back  on  familiar 
old  human  earth  when  you  need  me,  to  bring  you 
back. 

Allen  told  me  about  the  training  of  curanderos. 


Perhaps  send  him  an  aca- 
demic letter  of  introduction 
which  he  could  deliver  to 
Heim?  This  got  to  be  done 
soon,  as  Burroughs  is  on 
way  East  in  a  few  weeks  I 
think — not  sure. 


He  writes  he  had  some  LSD 
in  London,  as  well  as  an 
injection  of  another  drug — 
what,  I  dunno.  He  writes — 
Don't  flip  pops  is  all.  One 
must  be  careful  of  altitude 
sickness  and  depth  mad- 
ness and  the  bends.  Haz- 
ards of  the  silent  world. 
Space  is  silent  remember, 
etc. 


Anyway,  I'll  let  you  know 
before  I  leave  to  Cuba. 
Send  me  what  you  can,  if 
you  can,  when  you  can. 
Been  finished  with  proofs  of 
my  book  this  week  and  do- 
ing some  writing. 

00 


116  00    To  Turn-On  the  World 


ALLEN  GINSBERG 
FEBRUARY  1961: 

Been  paralyzed  making  de- 
cisions, so  forgive  me  not 
writing  last  week  till  I  fig- 
ured out  what  I  wanted  to 
do.  Got  letter  and  telegram 
from  Corso  in  Athens  sum- 
moning me  to  hurry  up  or 
he  sez  he'll  take  a  boat  to 
here. 


I  replied  I'd  stand  on  Acrop- 
olis with  him  in  a  month 
if  the  gods  please  and  he 
replied  he'd  wait  then. 
Meanwhile,  been  running 
around  in  frenzy. 


Huncke  now  cured  and  tak- 
ing rest  in  Jacobi  hospital 
for  a  few  weeks  in  psycho 
ward  with  friendly  doctors. 
He's  free  to  come  or  go. 


Yvonne  I've  seen  a  number 
of  times,  took  her  out  one 
night  to  LeRoi  Jones  and 
got  drunk.  She  can't  make 
up  her  mind  what  to  do 
with  her  life — wants  some- 
one to  depend  on — also 
wants  independence,  but 
she's  spoiled  and  beautiful. 


Barney  is  polite  too.  I  had 
talk  with  him — mollified  him 
by  saying  in  sum,  I  thought 
it  was  a  mistake  to  turn  him 
and  heron. 


The  old  witch  doctor  going  off  in  the  mountain  for 
weeks  with  the  young  candidate  and  having  him 
take  the  drug  day  after  day,  night  after  night, 
exploring  all  the  corners  and  caves  and  hidden 
inlets  of  the  visionary  world— the  terrain  of  heaven 
and  hell,  the  joy,  the  horror,  the  orgiastic  peaks,  the 
black  burning  swamps,  the  angels  and  the  devil 
snakes— until  he  had  been  there,  all  the  way  to  the 
far  reaches  of  awareness.  Then  he  was  equipped  to 
act  as  curandero,  to  take  care  of  visionary  travelers, 
to  understand  the  words  and  behavior  which  con- 
fuse and  frighten  the  unprepared  observer. 

Allen  told  of  the  therapeutic  impact  of  the  kind 
village  doctor  as  he  went  through  the  age-old  rit- 
uals of  caring-for— the  hand  on  the  shoulder,  and 
cup  of  hot  tea  and  the  covering  with  blankets.  I 
remembered  back  to  a  session  when  a  lonely  gradu- 
ate student  fell  to  the  carpet  in  anguished  panic, 
and  how  Frank  Barron  the  veteran  front-line  medic 
took  over  with  cold  compresses  and  kind  words, 
and  how  the  student  never  forgot  his  being  there, 
doing  the  right  thing  at  exactly  the  right  time. 

Allen  was  going  to  take  the  mushrooms  later  that 
night  and  he  was  shaping  me  up  to  help  him.  Allen 
was  weaving  a  word  spell,  dark  eyes  gleaming 
through  the  glasses,  chain-smoking,  moving  his 
hands,  intense,  chanting  trance  poetry.  Frank  Bar- 
ron was  in  the  study  now,  and  with  him  Lafcadio 
Orlovsky. 

Then  a  car  came  up  the  driveway  and  in  a 
minute  the  door  opened,  and  Donald,  furry  and 
moist,  ambled  in.  He  had  brought  his  friend,  an 
anthropology  student  from  Harvard,  to  be  with  him 
when  he  tripped.  Donald  asked  if  his  friend  could 
be  there  during  the  mushroom  session.  I  liked  the 
idea  of  having  a  friend  present  for  the  mushrooms, 
someone  to  whom  you  could  turn  at  those  moments 
when  you  needed  support,  so  I  said  sure,  but  he 
couldn't  take  the  pills  because  he  was  a  University 
student.  Everyone  was  warning  us  to  keep  our 
research  away  from  Harvard  to  avoid  complications 
with  the  University  Health  Bureau  and  to  avoid  the 
rumors.  He  wasn't  hungry  so  I  mixed  him  a  drink 
and  then  I  got  the  little  round  bottle  and  pulled  out 
the  cotton  topping  and  gave  Donald  30  mg.  and 


December  1960  CO    117 


Allen  Ginsberg  36.  several  nights  later  at  leary's 

HOUSE,  I  TOOK  A  LARGE  DOSE  OF  l8  (36  MG. )  AND 
WENT  UPSTAIRS  WITH  ORLOVSKY  TO  A  SEPARATE  ROOM. 

Allen  started  bustling  around  getting  his  cave 
ready.  I  brought  Susan's  record  player  up  to  his 
room  and  he  took  some  Beethoven  and  Wagner 
from  the  study  and  he  turned  out  the  lights  so  that 
there  was  just  a  glow  in  the  room,  took  off  all  my 

CLOTHES  AND  LAY  IN  RED  LISTENING  TO  MUSIC.  I  told 

him  we'd  be  checking  back  every  fifteen  minutes 
and  he^should  tell  me  if  he  wanted  anything. 

By  the  time  I  got  downstairs  Donald  was  already 
high,  strolling  around  the  house  on  dainty  raccoon 
feet  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  think- 
ing and  digging  deep  things,   as  my  awareness 

EXPANDED  I  SAW  MYSELF  LYING  IN  RED,  WITH  THE 
ALTERNATIVE  OF  WITHDRAWING  INTO  MYSTIC  INTRO- 
SPECTION, AND  VOMIT,  OR  SWALLOWING  RACK  MY 
VOMIT,  OPENING  MY  EYES,  AND  LIVING  IN  THE  PRESENT 

universe.  I  stayed  in  the  study  writing  letters,  read- 
ing the  Times.  I  had  forgotten  about  the  anthropol- 
ogy student.  He  was  waiting  in  the  kitchen,  i  felt 

INTIMIDATED  RY  THE  KNOWLEDGE  THAT  I  HAD  NOT 
REACHED  YET  A  PERFECT  UNDERSTANDING  WITH  MY 
CREATOR,  WHOEVER  HE  RE,  GOD,  CHRIST,  OR  RUDDHA— 
THE  FIGURE  OF  OCTOPUS  AS  REFORE. 

After  about  thirty  minutes  I  found  Donald  in  the 
hallway.  He  called  me  over  earnestly  and  began 
talking  about  the  artificiality  of  civilization.  He  was 
thinking  hard  about  basic  issues  and  it  was  obvious 
what  was  going  on  with  him— clearing  his  mind  of 
abstractions,  trying  to  get  back  behind  the  words 
and  concepts,  suddenly,  however,  realized  they 

WERE  ALL  IMAGINARY  REINGS  I  WAS  INVENTING  TO 
SURSTITUTE  FOR  THE  FEAR  OF  REING  MYSELF— THAT 
ONE  WHICH  I  HAD  DREAMED  OF. 

And  if  he  succeeds  in  assigning  the  right  place  to 
life  and  to  fate,  thus  bringing  the  two  into  har- 
mony, he  puts  his  fate  on  a  firm  footing.  These 
words  contain  hints  about  the  fastening  of  life  as 
handed  on  by  oral  tradition  in  the  secret  teachings 
of  Chinese  yoga.  ( I  Ching  L ) 

The  anthropology  student  was  standing  by, 
watching  curiously  and  Donald  asked  if  he  minded 


Otherwise  he'll  get  into  a 
big  battle  over  the  word 
mistake.  So  I  guess  they'll 
just  go  on  as  before  and 
workout  their  fate. 


Only  way  I  can  see  other- 
wise is  taking  over  Yvonne 
entirely,  me  marrying  her  or 
something.  (Don't  think  she 
didn't  suggest  it.)  She  still 
wants  him. 


We  just  barged  in  on  the 
middle  of  some  insoluble 
modern  romance.  I  dunno, 
how  to  resolve  the  mush- 
room politics  of  this,  with- 
out their  resolving  their  own 
politics. 


So  far  it  all  seems  quieted 
down.  I  really  want  to  get 
out  of  U.S.  and  go  to 
Greece  and  begin  Orient 
voyages,  etc.  A  lot  of  things 
keep  me  here  now,  the 
mushroom  work,  people 
who  depend  on  me,  like 
Huncke. 


(Or  people  who  I  think  de- 
pend on  me,  etc.)  But  I'd 
like  to  be  alone  and  start 
a  new  phase,  awhile. 


I  can  write,  either  way,  here 
or  there,  it's  not  so  much 
a  problem  of  having  soli- 
tude for  poetry,  it's  just  I 
feel  like  taking  off,  boop- 
boop-a-doop. 


118  00    To  Turn-On  the  World 


Meanwhile  I've  been  con- 
spiring with  everyone  I  can 
reach  in  N.Y.  the  last  weeks 
to  do  something  about  the 
general  dope  problem. 


Various  other  people  work- 
ing on  other  different 
angles.  Yesterday  got  on 
TV  with  N.  Mailer  and  Ash- 
ley Montague  and  gave  big 
speech  attacking  Narco 
Dept  and  recommending 
everybody  get  high — be  on 
locally  in  N.Y.  Sunday  after 
this,  if  they  don't  suppress 
the  program. 


Montague  is  an  old  woman, 
but  he  cooperated  a  bit. 
Maybe  I'll  go  on  Mike  Wal- 
lace show.  They  asked  me 
to. 


Also  making  an  appoint- 
ment with  Eleanor  Roose- 
velt to  try  to  interest  her  in 
the  social  problem.  Met  her 
and  Martin  Luther  King  at 
Dorothy  Norman's  last  night. 


Got  lunch  date  with  Rev. 
Norman  Eddy  of  East  Har- 
lem Protestant  parish  this 
Tuesday.  He's  the  big  dope 
do-gooder. 


Didn't  mention  mushrooms 
in  all  of  this,  for  tactful 
reasons.  Best  keep  that  on 
its  own  high  level. 


leaving  so  that  he  could  talk  to  me  privately.  An- 
thro  went  back  to  the  kitchen  and  Donald  con- 
tinued talking  about  the  falseness  of  houses  and 
machines  and  deploring  the  way  man  cut  himself 
off  from  the  vital  stuff  with  his  engines  and  struc- 
tures. I  was  trying  to  be  polite  and  be  a  good 
curandero  and  support  him  and  tell  him,  great  boy, 
stay  with  it  and  work  it  out. 

Susan  came  back  from  her  friend's  about  this 
time  and  went  upstairs  to  her  homework,  and  I 
followed  her  up  to  check  on  Allen.  He  was  lying  on 
top  of  the  blanket.  His  glasses  were  off  and  his 
black  eyes,  pupils  completely  dilated,  looked  up  at 
me.  Looking  down  into  them  they  seemed  like  two 
deep,  black,  wet  wells  and  you  could  look  down 
them  way  through  the  man  Ginsberg  to  something 
human  beyond.  The  eye  is  such  a  defenseless, 
naive,  trusting  thing,  professor  leary  came  into 

MY  ROOM,  LOOKED  IN  MY  EYES,  AND  SAID  I  WAS  A 
GREAT  MAN.  THAT  DETERMINED  ME  TO  MAKE  AN 
EFFORT  TO  LIVE  HERE  AND  NOW. 

Allen  was  scared  and  unhappy  and  sick.  And  still 
he  was  lying  there  voluntarily,  patiently  searching, 
pushing  himself  into  panics  and  fears,  into  nausea, 
trying  to  learn  something,  trying  to  find  meaning. 
Shamelessly  weak  and  shamelessly  human  and 
greatly  classic.  Peter  was  lying  next  to  him,  eyes 
closed,  sleeping  or  listening  to  the  record,  i  got 

NAUSEOUS  SOON  AFTER— SAT  UP  IN  RED  NAKED  AND 
SWALLOWED  DOWN  THE  VOMIT  THAT  RESIEGED  FROM 
MY  STOMACH  AS  IF  AN  INDEPENDENT  REING  DOWN 
THERE  WAS  RERELLING  AT  REING  DRAGGED  INTO  EXIS- 
TENCE. 

Allen  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  him  and  his 
situation.  I  leaned  over  and  looked  down  into  the 
black  liquid  eyes,  fawn's  eyes,  man's  eyes,  and  told 
him  that  he  was  a  great  man  and  that  it  was  good 
to  know  him.  He  reached  up  his  hand.  Can  I  get 
you  anything,  Allen?  No  thanks.  I'll  be  back  in  a 
while.   He  nodded,  orlovsky  was  naked  in  red 

WITH  ME  AND  HIS  EROTIC  GESTURES  LOOKED  REPTILIAN, 
AS  IF  OUT  OF  HINDU-DEVA  STATUARY— HIS  LIDDED  EYES 
AND  HOOKED  NOSE  ALMOST  LIKE  RLUE  KRISHNA  STATUE 
FROM  THE  WRONG  PLANE  OF  EXISTENCE  NOT  CONSO- 
NANT WITH  i960  USA. 


December  1960  00    119 


On  the  way  downstairs  I  checked  by  Susan's 
room.  She  was  curled  up  on  the  carpet,  with  her 
books  scattered  around  her  and  reading  in  the 
shadows.  I  scolded  her  about  ruining  her  eyes  and 
flicked  on  the  two  wall  bulbs.  Downstairs  Frank 
was  still  at  the  study  desk,  suddenly  out  of  the 

WINDOW  SAW  IMAGE  AS  OF  A  BETHLEHEM  STAR, 
HEARD  GREAT  HORNS  OF  GOTTERDAMMERUNG-WAGNER 
ON  THE  PHONOGRAPH  ID  ARRANGED  TO  HEAR  IN   THE 

room.  Anthro  was  wandering  in  the  living  room  and 
told  me  that  Donald  had  gone  outside.  The  rule  we 
set  up  was  that  no  one  would  leave  the  house  and 
the  idea  of  Donald  padding  down  Beacon  Street  in 
a  mystic  state  chilled  me.  like  the  horns  of  judg- 
ment CALLING  FROM  THE  ENDS  OF  THE  COSMOS- 
CALLED   ON   ALL   HUMAN   CONSCIOUSNESS   TO  DECLARE 

itself  the  consciousness.  Out  on  the  front  porch  I 
turned  on  the  two  rows  of  spotlights  that  flooded 
the  long  winding  stone  stairs  and  started  down, 
shielding  my  eyes  and  shouting  Donald.  Halfway 
down  I  heard  him  answering  back  and  saw  him 
standing  under  an  oak  tree  on  the  lower  lawn.  I 
asked  him  how  he  was  but  he  didn't  talk,,  just  stood 
there  looking  wise  and  deep,  seemed  as  if  all  the 

WORLDS  OF  HUMAN  CONSCIOUSNESS  WERE  WAITING  FOR 
A  MESSIAH,  SOMEONE  TO  TAKE  ON  THE  RESPONSIBDLITY 
OF  BEING  THE  CREATIVE  GOD  AND  SEIZE  POWER  OVER 

the  universe.  He  was  barefoot  and  higher  than 
Picard's  balloon.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  but  first  you 
must  take  off  your  shoes.  Okay,  why  not?  I  sat 
down  to  unlace  my  shoes  and  he  squatted  along- 
side and  told  about  how  the  machines  complicate 
our  lives  and  how  cold  and  hot  were  abstractions 
and  how  we  didn't  really  need  houses  and  shoes 
and  clothes  because  it  was  just  our  concepts  that 
made  us  think  we  needed  these  things.  I  agreed 
with  him  and  followed  what  his  mind  was  doing, 
suspending  for  a  moment  the  clutch  of  the  abstract 
but  at  the  same  time  shivering  from  the  November 
wind  and  wanting  to  get  back  behind  the  warm 
glow  of  the  windows,  milton's  lucifer  flashed 

THROUGH  MY  MIND. 

The  young  anthropology  student  was  standing  in 
the  hallway.  I  told  him  that  Donald  was  doing  fine, 
great  mystical  stuff,   philosophizing  without  con- 


Otherwise  might  get  mixed 
up  with  beatnikism.  You 
sure  got  a  lot  of  energy. 


I  dunno,  but  I  think  it 
would  help  the  mushroom 
atmosphere  lots  if  there 
were  a  general  U.S.  re- 
thinking (as  the  N.Y.  Times 
friend  says)  on  the  dope 
social  problem. 


Lindesmith  and  Indiana  U 
Press  are  putting  out  this 
joint  report  of  interim  com- 
mittee of  AMA  and  Amer. 
Bar  Assn.  So  I  got  in  touch 
with  all  the  liberal  pro-dope 
people  I  know  to  have  it 
publicized  and  circulated 
and  have  all  of  them  inter- 
connect to  exchange  infor- 
mation. 


I  wrote  a  five-page  sum- 
mary of  situation  to  this 
friend  Kenny  Love  on  the 
N.Y.  Times  and  he  said  he'd 
perhaps  do  a  story  (news- 
wise)  on  the  book,  which 
could  then  be  picked  up  by 
UP  friend  on  national  wire. 


Also  gave  copy  to  Al 
Aronowitz  on  N.Y.  Post  and 
Rosalind  Constable  at  Time 
and  Bob  Silvers  on  Harpers 
magazine  and  informed 
Yugen,  Evergreen,  Big 
Table,  Metronome. 


120  00    To  Turn-On  the  World 


Meanwhile  Indiana  U  people 
are  working  on  Commen- 
tary, The  Nation,  etc.  Regu- 
lar network.  Also  got  a  copy 
of  La  Guardia  Report  to 
Grove  Press. 


They  will  republish  it  with 
additional  stronger  ma- 
terial. Maybe  Dan  Wakefield 
edit  a  book. 


.  .  .  just  got  your  Feb.  1 
letter.  Glad  you  heard  the 
Howl  record.  That  never  got 
circulated. 


So,  I  also  got  to  work  this 
month  arranging  advertise- 
ments for  that  Fantasy  Rec- 
ord Co.  Is  very  inert  unless 
I  prod  them. 


If  that  begins  selling  some- 
time this  year,  with  Kaddish 
out  in  a  month,  I'll  have 
plenty  loot  for  Europe  and 
Asia  and  Lafcadio  too. 


I  won't,  therefore,  be  able 
to  make  the  Harvard  mush- 
room seminar  week — I'm 
sorry — don't  let  it  bug  you. 


I  don't  know  exactly  when 
I'm  leaving  yet — but  it's  got 
to  be  around  the  first  week 
in  March.  Peter  and  I  will 
come  up  to  Harvard  for 
weekend  before  we  leave 
tho. 


cepts.  He  looked  puzzled.  He  didn't  want  a  drink  or 
food.  I  walked  upstairs  and  found  the  door  to 
Allen's  room  closed.  I  waited  for  a  while,  not 
knowing  what  to  do  and  then  knocked  softly  and 
said  softly,  Allen  I'm  here  now  and  will  be  back  in  a 
few  minutes.  Paradise  Lost,  a  book  i'd  never  under- 
stood BEFORE— WHY  MILTON  SIDED  WITH  LUCIFER  THE 
REBEL  IN  HEAVEN. 

I  GOT  UP  OUT  OF  BED  AND  WALKED  DOWNSTAIRS 
NAKED,  ORLOVSKY  FOLLOWING  ME  CURIOUS  WHAT  I 
WOULD  DO  AND  WILLING  TO  GO  ALONG  IN  CASE  I  DDD 
ANYTHING  INTERESTINGLY  EXTRAVAGANT. 

Susan  was  sitting  cross-legged  on  her  bed  brush- 
ing her  hair  when  there  came  a  patter  of  bare  feet 
on  the  hallway  carpet.  I  got  to  the  door  just  in  time 
to  see  naked  buttocks  disappearing  down  the  stair- 
way. It  was  Peter.  I  was  grinning  when  I  went  back 
to  Susan.  Peter  is  running  around  without  any 
clothes  on.  Susan  picked  up  her  paraphernalia- 
curlers,  brush,  pins,  and  trotted  up  to  the  third 
floor.  I  headed  downstairs. 

URGING  ME  ON  IN  FACT,  THANK  GOD.  When  I  got  tO 

the  study  Frank  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair 
behind  the  desk  grinning  quizzically.  In  front  of  the 
desk  looking  like  medieval  hermits  were  Allen  and 
Peter  both  stark  naked,  i  went  in  among  the  psy- 
chologists IN  STUDY  AND  SAW  THEY  TOO  WERE  WAIT- 
ING FOR  SOMETHING  VAST  TO  HAPPEN,  ONLY  IT  RE- 
QUIRED   SOMEONE    AND    THE    MOMENT    TO    MAKE    IT 

happen— action,  revolution.  No,  Allen  had  on  his 
glasses  and  as  I  came  in  he  peered  out  at  me  and 
raised  his  finger  in  the  air.  Hey,  Allen,  what  goes 
on?  Allen  had  a  holy  gleam  in  his  eye  and  he  waved 
his  finger.  I'm  the  Messiah.  I've  come  down  to 
preach  love  to  the  world.  We're  going  to  walk 
through  the  streets  and  teach  people  to  stop  hating. 

I  DECIDED  I  MIGHT  AS  WELL  BE  THE  ONE  TO  DO  SO- 
PRONOUNCED  MY  NAKEDNESS  AS  THE  FIRST  ACT  OF 
REVOLUTION  AGAINST  THE  DESTROYERS  OF  THE  HUMAN 
IMAGE. 

Well,  Allen,  that  sounds  like  a  pretty  good  idea. 
Listen,  said  Allen,  do  you  believe  that  I'm  the 
Messiah,  the  naked  body  being  the  hidden  sign. 
Look,  I  can  prove  it.  I'm  going  to  cure  your  hear- 
ing. Take  off  your  hearing  machine.  Your  ears  are 


December  1960  00    121 


cured.  Come  on,  take  it  off,  you  don't  need  it.  and 

GRABBED  THE  TELEPHONE  TO  COMMUNICATE  MY  DECI- 
SION—WANTED TO  HOOK  UP  KHRUSHCHEV,  KEROUAC, 
BURROUGHS,  IKE,  KENNEDY,  MAO-TSE  TUNG,  MAILER  IN 
BELLE VUE,    ETC. 

Frank  was  still  smiling.  Peter  was  standing  by 
watching  seriously.  The  hearing  aid  was  dumped 
on  the  desk.  That's  right.  And  now  your  glasses,  I'll 
heal  your  vision  too.  The  glasses  were  laid  on  the 

desk  tOO.  ALL  IN  ONE  TELEPHONE  LINE  AND  GET  THEM 
ALL  TO  COME  IMMEDIATELY  TO  HARVARD  TO  HAVE 
SPECTRAL  CONFERENCE  OVER  THE  FUTURE  OF  THE  UNI- 
VERSE. 

Allen  was  peering  around  with  approval  at  his 
healing.  But  Allen,  one  thing.  What?  Your  glasses. 
You're  still  wearing  them.  Why  don't  you  cure  your 
own  vision.  Allen  looked  surprised.  Yes,  you're 
right.  I  will.  He  took  off  his  glasses  and  laid  them 
on  the  desk,  take  over  from  the  cosmic  police 

AND  TAKE  THE  WORLD  FOR  OUR  OWN  INSTEAD  OF  BEING 
AT  THE  MERCY  OF  INTERCONNECTED  NETWORK  OF 
ECONOMIC  POWER  AND  ELECTRONIC  COMMUNICATION 
THAT  WAS  THREATENING  US  WITH  DESTRUCTION. 

Now  Allen  was  a  blind  messiah  squinting  around 
to  find  his  followers,  atom  bomb  apocalypses. 
Come  on.  We're  going  down  to  the  city  streets  to 
tell  the  people  about  peace  and  love.  And  then  we'll 
get  lots  of  great  people  onto  a  big  telephone  net- 
work to  settle  all  this  warfare  bit.  got  as  far  as 

TELLING  THE  PHONE  OPERATOR  I  WAS  GOD  AND 
WANTED  TO  TALK  WITH  KEROUAC  IMMEDIATELY. 

Fine,  said  Frank,  but  why  not  do  the  telephone 
bit  first,  right  here  in  the  house.  Frank  was  heading 
off  the  pilgrimage  down  the  avenue  naked,  remem- 
bered TO  RUN  UPSTAIRS  AND  GIVE  HER  HIS  PHONE  NUM- 
BER IN  CASE  IT  DELAYED  MY  SCHEME  WHILE  SHE 
SEARCHED  IT  OUT. 

Who  we  gonna  call,  said  Peter.  Well,  we'll  call 
Kerouac  on  Long  Island,  and  Kennedy  and  Khru- 
shchev and  Bill  Burroughs  in  Paris  and  Norman 
Mailer  in  the  psycho  ward  in  Bellevue.  We'll  get 
them  all  hooked  up  in  a  big  cosmic  electronic  love 
talk.  War  is  just  a  hang-up.  We'll  get  the  love-thing 
flowing   on   the   electric   Bell   telephone   network. 

REACHED  HIM  AND  HAD  A  VERY  EXPRESSIVE  CONVERSA- 
TION—ONE OF  THE  FRANKEST  I'VE  HAD  WITH  HIM  IN 


Please  don't  be  mad  at  me 
for  taking  off  and  leaving 
you  holding  the  bag  with 
so  much  on  your  mind.  In 
the  long  run  I  do  much 
better  in  anonymous  goof- 
ing and  writing  than  being 
Allen  Ginsberg  politicking. 


I  get  the  impression  that  the 
general  psychic  fog  in  the 
U.S.  may  be  lifting.  Also 
wrote  a  stern  appeal  for 
drugs  into  the  GAP  con- 
ference report,  which'll  be 
published  by  them. 


Said  they  should  invite 
some  Amazon  curanderos 
for  their  next  conference. 
Do  you  want  or  need,  or 
does  the  situation  actually 
need,  that  I  stay  longer  here 
and  make  the  Harvard  con- 
ference? 


I  feel  that  if  I  stay  I'll  just 
keep  staying — and  Gregory 
is  calling,  etc.  If  he  comes 
here  it'll  be  a  ball,  but  it'll 
be  a  year  or  half-year  be- 
fore we  can  go  again. 


Prison  sounds  great.  Don't 
give  mushrooms  to  junkies 
who  are  just  in  physiological 
process  (first  weeks)  of 
kicking.  Burroughs  says  in 
an  article  it  would  be  pure 
hell. 


122  00    To  Turn-On  the  World 


Physical  pains,  maybe  get 
magnified.  Kaufman  said 
he'd  already  sent  you  ma- 
terial— didn't  it  arrive?  I 
told  him  you'd  not  received 
it. 


Which  Osmond  handbook 
on  LSD?  On  giving  LSD? 
Was  that  one  of  the  papers 
I  had? 


In  confusion  I  gave  all 
papers  to  a  Dr.  Joe  Gibbs, 
young  psychiatrist  who's 
had  mescaline — including 
your  poem-paper,  before  I 
had  read  it.  Can  you  send 
me  another? 


Who's  the  Boston  poet?  I 
wound  up  imitating  Kerouac 
too,  for  a  week.  He  sounds 
fine  on  phone.  I  think  that 
weekend  did  him  perma- 
nent good,  sort  of  made 
him  more  resolved  and 
peaceful. 


Your  letter  very  lovely, 
makes  me  feel  like  a  mes- 
siah — running  out  on  the 
cross  part.  I  was  always  a 
little  ashamed  of  the  love 
poem  for  being  so  schmaltzy 
and  schwarmerai  and  vague 
and  abstract. 


The  America  reading  is  a 
combination  of  different 
readings  pieced  on  tape — 
I  wanted  to  get  campy 
tones  into  it,  burlesque  hor- 
ror and  goo-goo  eyes. 


last  five  years.  Who  we  gonna   call  first,   said 
Peter.  Let's  start  with  Khrushchev,  said  Allen. 
Look,  why  don't  we  start  with  Kerouac  on  Long 

Island.  EXPLAINED  ALL  THE  ABOVE  AND  DEMANDED  HE 

join  me  immediately.  In  the  meantime,  let's  pull 
the  curtains,  said  Frank.  There's  enough  going  on 
in  here  so  I  don't  care  about  looking  outside,  he 

SAID  HE  HAS  HIS  MOTHER— "BRING  YOUR  MOTHER"— 
THE  FIRST  TIME  l'D  HAD  THE  NERVE  TO  CHALLENGE  HIS 
MOTHER'S    PSYCHIC    PRIMACY    OVER    HIS    FATE.    Allen 

picked  up  the  white  telephone  and  dialed  Operator. 
The  two  thin  figures  leaned  forward  wrapped  up  in 
a  holy  fervor  trying  to  spread  peace.  The  dear 
noble  innocent  helplessness  of  the  naked  body. 
They  looked  as  though  they  had  stepped  out  of  a 
quatrocento  canvas,  apostles,  martyrs,  dear  fanatic 
holy  men.  Allen  said,  Hello,  operator,  this  is  God,  I 
want  to  talk  to  Kerouac.  felt  equal  to  including 

HER  IN  ON  THE  REBELLION  IN  HEAVEN.  To  whom  do  I 

want  to  talk?  Kerouac.  What's  my  name?  This  is 
God.  G.O.D.  Okay.  We'll  try  Capitol  7-0563. 
Where?  Northport,  Long  Island.  There  was  a 
pause.  We  were  all  listening  hard.  Oh.  Yes.  That's 
right.  That's  the  number  of  the  house  where  I  was 
born.  Look,  operator,  I'll  have  to  go  upstairs  to  get 
the  number.  Then  I'll  call  back,  he  said,  i  don't 

WANT  TO  DIE. 

Allen  hung  up  the  receiver.  What  was  all  that 
about,  Allen?  Well,  the  operator  asked  me  my  name 
and  I  said  I  was  God  and  I  wanted  to  speak  to 
Kerouac  and  she  said,  I'll  try  to  do  my  best,  sir,  but 
you'll  have  to  give  me  his  number  and  then  I  gave 
her  the  number  of  my  mother's  house.  I've  got 
Kerouac's  number  upstairs  in  my  book.  Just  a  min- 
ute and  I'll  get  it. 

Allen  hopped  out  of  the  room,  and  Peter  the 
Hermit  lit  a  cigarette.  I  took  advantage  of  the  time 
out  to  check  on  the  third  floor.  Susan  was  sitting  on 
the  floor  of  the  TV  room  sticking  bobby  pins  in  her 
curlers.  Rhona  was  lying  on  the  couch  watching  a 
program.  Charlie  said,  Hey,  what's  going  on  down 
there?  Allen  says  he  is  God  and  he,  and  Peter  are 
naked  and  are  phoning  around  to  Kennedy  and 
Kerouac.  Naked?  Both  of  them?  Rhona  and  Charlie 
giggled.  Rhona  had  been  troubled  by  the  poets'  old 


December  1960  00    123 


clothes  and  felt  that  they  hadn't  been  bathing.  Hey, 
said  Rhona,  if  they're  really  naked  why  don't  you 
get  them  to  jump  under  a  shower.  Good  God, 
Rhona,  with  all  this  celestial  business  breaking  out 
how  can  you  get  hung  up  on  personal  hygiene. 
Charlie  got  up  from  the  easy  chair.  Naked,  huh? 
This  is  something  I  can't  miss.  Dad-burn-it,  I'm 
going  down  to  catch  this  show. 

Charlie  followed  down  to  the  study.  The  two 
saints  were  standing  gaunt  and  biblical  by  the  desk. 
Allen  was  shouting  in  the  telephone  to  Jack,  i  said, 

WHAZZAMATTER  YOU  AFRAID !  !  ?  HE  GIGGLED—  CON- 
VERSATION soon  ended.  He  wanted  Jack  to  come  up 
to  Cambridge  and  then  he  wanted  Jack's  mother  to 
come  too.  Jack  had  a  lot  to  say  because  Allen  held 
the  phone  listening  for  long  spaces,  i  heard  he 

WENT  INTO  NY  AND  DIDN'T  DRINK  FOR  A   WEEK  AS   A 

result.  Charlie  was  standing  with  his  feet  apart 
watching.  Frank  was  still  sitting  behind  the  desk 
smiling.  Donald  and  the  anthro  student  were  stand- 
ing in  the  hallway  looking  in  curiously.  I  walked 
over  to  explain,  i  had  feeling  if  i  weakened  in 
energy  the  scheme  would  fail.  Allen  says  he  is  the 
Messiah  and  he's  calling  Kerouac  to  start  a  peace 
and  love  movement.  Donald  wasn't  interested.  He 
went  on  telling  me  about  the  foolishness  of  believ- 
ing in  hot  and  cold.  It  occurred  to  me  that  Allen 
and  Peter  were  proving  his  point,  if  i  ate  or  shit 

AGAIN  I  WOULD  TURN  BACK  TO  MERE  NON-MESSIAH  HU- 
MAN. The  phone  call  continued  and  finally  I  walked 
back  in  and  said,  Hey  Allen,  for  the  cost  of  this 
phone  call  we  could  pay  his  way  up  here  by  plane. 
Allen  shot  an  apologetic  look  and  then  I  heard  him 
telling  Jack,  Okay  Jack,  I  have  to  go  now,  but  you've 
got  to  take  the  mushrooms  and  let's  settle  this 
quarrel   between   Kennedy   and   Khrushchev,   but 

NEEDED  MY  GLASSES— THOUGH  HAD  YELLED  AT  LEARY 
THAT  HE  DIDN'T  NEED  HIS  EARPIECE  TO  HEAR  THE  REAL 
VIBRATIONS  OF  THE  COSMOS. 

HE  WENT  ALONG  WITH  ME  AGREEABLY.   Allen   and 

Peter  were  sitting  on  the  big  couch  in  the  living 
room  and  Allen  was  telling  us  about  his  visions, 
cosmic  electronic  networks,  and  how  much  it  meant 
to  him  that  I  told  him  he  was  a  great  man  and  how 
this  mushroom  episode  had  opened  the  door  to 


Can  you  send  me  copy  of 
Amer  Psych  Assn  Speech? 
I  been  typing  all  day  and 
also  on  junk — want  to  lie 
down  and  rest  and  think — 
so  sign  off. 


Peter  working  12  hours  a 
day  as  messenger  in  snow 
to  get  up  some  more 
Europe  loot. 


If  we're  starving  in  India, 
we'll  send  you  big  demand- 
ing telegrams  taking  you  up 
on  your  offer. 


I  gave  15  mushrooms  to 
Thelonious  Monk  and  he 
wanted  to  be  alone  with 
family  in  his  house.  I  spoke 
to  him  on  phone  5  hours 
later  and  he  was  fine. 


No  report  from  him  yet,  I'll 
send  that  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. David  Solomon  is  a 
good  guy,  but  he  is  long- 
winded,  an  ex-political  Red 
intellectual  who's  got  hu- 
mane. 


He's  given  mescaline  out, 
so  I  guess  he  can  do  it 
safely.  I  don't  know  if  for- 
mal center  need  can  be  set 
up  in  N.Y.  till  the  fungus 
spreads  from  Cambridge 
academy  to  N.Y.  academy. 


124  00    To  Turn-On  the  World 


You  have  all  the  equipment 
for  working  with  security 
there,  that's  the  best — it 
will  spread  on  its  own  once 
some  N.Y.  psychiatrist 
meets  up  with  you. 


Glad  Schultes  is  friendly. 
Never  did  meet  him.  I've  got 
to  lie  down  awhile — write 
me  a  note — I  hope  my  de- 
parture won't  bring  you 
down — is  it  alright  if  I  go? 
Tell  me. 


Janine  not  taken  mush- 
rooms yet.  I  have  23  left — 
I  gave  8  to  a  painter  friend. 
All  the  young  kids  lately 
are  shooting  (needle)  a 
drug  called  methedrine  .  .  . 


.  .  .  an  amphetamine  semi- 
hallucinogen — haven't  tried 
it  yet.  It's  all  the  vogue. 


See — I  don't  know  if  I 
should  stay  here  and  rave 
and  scream  politically  and 
give  big  Carnegie  Hall  read- 
ings and  Harvard  readings 
— but  I  think  a  quiet  silly 
trip  to  Greece  would  be  bet- 
ter in  the  long  run. 

00 


women  and  heterosexuality  and  how  he  could  see 
new  womanly  body  visions  and  family  life  ahead. 

BUT  THEN  I  BEGAN  BREATHING  AND  WANTING  TO  LIE 

down  and  rest.  Peter's  hand  was  moving  back  and 
forth  on  Allen's  shoulder.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
he  had  stood  up  to  Jack  and  he  was  sorry  about  the 
phone  bill  but  wasn't  it  too  bad  that  Khrushchev 
and  Kennedy  couldn't  have  been  on  the  line  and, 
hey,  what  about  Norman  Mailer  in  that  psychiatric 
ward  in  Bellevue,  shouldn't  we  call  him.  and  saw 

THE  CONTROL  OF  THE  UNIVERSE  SLIPPING  OUT  OF  MY 
HANDS. 

I  don't  think  they'd  let  a  call  go  through  to  him, 
Allen.  Well,  it  all  depends  on  how  we  come  on.  I 
don't  think  coming  on  as  Allen  Ginsberg  would 
help  in  that  league.  I  don't  think  coming  on  as  the 
Messiah  would  either.  Well,  you  could  come  on  as 
big  psychologists  and  make  big  demanding  noises 
about  the  patient.  It  was  finally  decided  that  it  was 
too  much  trouble. 

Still  curandero,  I  asked  if  they  wanted  anything 
to  eat  or  drink.  Well,  how  about  some  hot  milk. 

FROM  PHYSICAL  FEAR  AND  FEELINGS  OF  WANTING  TO 
FORGET   IT   ALL   AND   DIE,    SLEEP,    EAT,    SHIT,    BE   BACK 

human.  Allen  and  Peter  went  upstairs  to  put  on 
robes  and  I  put  some  cold  milk  in  a  pan  and  turned 
on  the  stove.  Donald  was  still  moving  around  softly 
with  his  hands  behind  his  back.  Thinking.  Watch- 
ing. He  was  too  deep  and  Buddha  for  us  to  swing 
with  and  I  later  realized  that  I  hadn't  been  a  very 
attentive  curandero  for  him  and  that  there  was  a 
gulf  between  Allen  and  him  never  closed  and  that 
the  geographic  arrangement  was  too  scattered  to 
make  a  close  loving  session.  Of  course,  both  of 
them  were  old  drug  hands  and  ready  to  go  off  on 
their  own  private  journeys  and  both  wanted  to 
make  something  deep  and  their  own. 

Anthro's  role  in  all  of  this  was  never  clear.  He 
stood  in  the  hallway  watching  curiously  but  for  the 
most  part  we  ignored  him,  treated  him  as  an  object 
just  there  but  not  involved  and  that,  of  course,  was 
a  mistake.  Any  time  you  treat  someone  as  an  object 
rest  assured  he'll  do  the  same  and  that  was  the  way 
that  score  was  going  to  be  tallied. 

We  ended  up  with  a  great  scene  in  the  kitchen.  I 


December  1960  00    125 


bustled  around  pouring  the  hot  milk  into  cups,  and 
the  poets  sat  around  the  table  looking  like  Giotto 
martyrs  in  checkered  robes.  Lafcadio  came  down 
and  we  got  him  some  food  and  he  nodded  yes 
when  I  asked  him  about  ice  cream  and  Allen 
started  to  talk  about  his  visions  and  about  the  drug 
scene  in  New  York  and,  becoming  eloquent,  wound 
up  preaching  with  passion  about  the  junkies,  help- 
less, hooked,  lost,  thin,  confused  creatures,  sick  and 
the  police  and  the  informers,  i  saw  the  best  minds 

OF  MY  GENERATION  DESTROYED  BY  MADNESS,  STARVING 
HYSTERICAL  NAKED,  DRAGGING  THEMSELVES  THROUGH 
THE  NEGRO  STREETS  AT  DAWN  LOOKING  FOR  AN  ANGRY 

fix.  And  then  we  started  planning  the  psychedelic 
revolution.  Allen  wanted  everyone  to  have  the 
mushrooms.  Who  has  the  right  to  keep  them  from 
someone  else?  And  there  should  be  freedom  for  all 
sorts  of  rituals,  too.  angelheaded  hipsters  burning 

FOR  THE  ANCIENT  HEAVENLY  CONNECTION  TO  THE 
STARRY  DYNAMO  IN  THE  MACHINERY  OF  NIGHT.   The 

doctors  could  have  them  and  there  should  be 
curanderos,  and  all  sorts  of  good  new  holy  rituals 
that  could  be  developed  and  ministers  have  to  be 
involved.  Although  the  church  is  naturally  and 
automatically  opposed  to  mushroom  visions,  still 
the  experience  is  basically  religious  and  some  minis- 
ters would  see  it  and  start  using  them.  But  with  all 
these  groups  and  organizations  and  new  rituals, 
there  still  had  to  be  room  for  the  single,  lone, 
unattached,  non-groupy  individual  to  take  the 
mushrooms  and  go  off  and  follow  his  own  rituals- 
brood  big  cosmic  thoughts  by  the  sea  or  roam 
through  the  streets  of  New  York,  high  and  restless, 
thinking  poetry,  and  writers  and  poets  and  artists  to 
work  out  whatever  they  were  working  out.  who 

WERE  EXPELLED  FROM  THE  ACADEMIES  FOR  CRAZY  AND 
PUBLISHING  OBSCENE  ODES  ON  THE  WINDOWS  OF  THE 
SKULL. 

But  all  this  was  going  to  be  hard  to  bring  about. 
What  a  political  struggle!  Think  of  all  the  big 
powerful  forces  lined  up  ready  to  crush  anything 
wonderful  and  holy  and  free— the  big  fascist  busi- 
nessmen and  the  people  who  wanted  to  start  a  war 
against  Russia  and  crush  Castro,  who  cowered  in 

UNSHAVEN    ROOMS    IN    UNDERWEAR,    BURNING    THEm 


ALLEN  GINSBERG 
MARCH  1961: 

Still  hoping  to  come  up, 
but  can't  figure  it  till  I  settle 
other  things — leaving  ar- 
rangements, filing  all  pa- 
pers, etc.  Glad  Burroughs 
will  be  back  at  Harvard. 


It's  hard  trying  to  turn  off 
faucet  of  correspondence. 
The  FCC  complained  to 
John  Crosby  about  my  TV 
speech  and  after  network 
pressure  Crosby  let  them 
play  a  7-minute  rebuttal  last 
weekend,  lots  of  crap. 


I  also  hear  Paul  Goodman 
and  N.  Podhoretz  are  form- 
ing some  kind  of  committee 
for  intelligent  action  which 
has  as  program  various 
things  such  as  sex  freedom 
and  drug  freedom. 


A  young  girl  approached 
me  and  transmitted  a  sug- 
gestion from  Goodman  that 
I  go  to  jail  in  passive  re- 
sistance action  on  mari- 
juana. Sounds  like  a  good 
deal,  actually. 


I  told  her  I  was  going  to 
Greece  tho,  so  couldn't. 
They're  having  a  meeting 
tonight  at  Debs  Hall — just 
like  the  20's. 


126  00    To  Turn-On  the  World 


The  Times  refused  to  run  a 
series  on  Fed  Narco  Bureau 
but  Harrison  Salisbury  is 
now  lobbying  to  find  why; 
and  they  did  agree  to  run 
the  Lindesmith-Ploscowe  re- 
port in  summary  when  it 
does  come  out  and  various 
Chicago  and  SF  papers  are 
now  interested  too. 


I  think  people  at  Living  The- 
ater and  Goodman  and 
others  soon  will  prepare 
some  sort  of  intellectual's 
petition  to  free  pot  from 
prohibition. 


I'll  write  Dr.  Spiegel.  Rev. 
John  Snow  of  Gould  Farm 
asked  for  your  address, 
says  he  been  reading  up  on 
subject  and  now  wants  to 
try  LSD  or  mushrooms.  I'll 
send  it  to  him. 


Looks  like  your  own  area 
is  very  sunny  and  I  think  it 
will  remain  so. 


MONEY    IN     WASTEBASKETS     AND    LISTENING    TO    THE 

terror  through  the  wall.  And  all  the  sadistic  little 
men  who  get  together  in  groups  like  the  American 
Legion  and  the  white  supremacy  councils,  and  of 
course  all  the  people  who  had  their  own  little 
autocratic  empires  going  who  would  be  threatened 
if  people  really  began  to  see  with  mushroom  hon- 
esty, and  finally  and  always  there  the  police  ready 
to  investigate  and  arrest  and  indict  and  bully  and 
keep  people  in  jail  because  they  want  to  live  quiet 
lives  of  freedom  and  poetry,  who  reappeared  on 

THE  WEST  COAST  INVESTIGATING  THE  F.B.I.  IN  BEARDS 
AND  SHORTS  WITH  BIG  PACIFIST  EYE  SEXY  IN  THEIR 
DARK  SKIN  PASSING  OUT  INCOMPREHENSIBLE  LEAFLETS. 

As  Allen  talked  nearsighted  Marx-Trotsky-Paine 
poetry,  there  was  always  the  Terror  just  back  there 
a  bit.  Terror  of  Moloch,  moloch!  moloch!  robot 

APARTMENTS!  INVISIBLE  SUBURBS !  SKELETON  TREA- 
SURES! BLIND  CAPITALS!  DEMONIC  INDUSTRIES!  SPEC- 
TRAL nations!  invincible  madhouses!  granite 
cocks!  monstrous  bombs  I  Terror  of  the  Nazi  na- 
tional Golgotha.  Terror  of  the  void.  Terror  of  death. 
Terror  of  Rockland  State  Hospital  madness.  Terror 
of  the  void.  Terror  of  the  long  coiled  snake  of  Peru 
slithering  up  closer  with  the  slit-eye  of  destruction. 

WHO  BURNED  CIGARETTE  HOLES  IN  THEIR  ARMS  PRO- 
TESTING THE  NARCOTIC  TOBACCO  HAZE  OF  CAPITALISM. 

The  present  hexagram  refers  to  the  cultural 
superstructure  of  society.  Here  it  is  the  wood  that 
serves  as  nourishment  for  the  flame,  the  spirit. 
(IChingL) 


La  Barre  is  lovely  guy — 
hope  you  meet  him  some- 
where. Jack  moved  his 
mama  to  Florida,  so's  out 
of  town. 


Harry  Smith  and  Phipps  are 
negotiating  and  I've  now 
dropped  out  since  they 
seem  to  be  able  to  handle 
it  all  between  them  O.K. 
Haven't  heard  results. 


WHO  DISTRIBUTED  SUPERCOMMUNIST  PAMPHLETS  IN 
UNION  SQUARE  WEEPING  AND  UNDRESSING  WHILE  THE 
SIRENS    OF    LOS   ALAMOS    WAILED   THEM   DOWN.    Allen 

Ginsberg  hunched  over  the  kitchen  table,  shabby 
robe  hiding  his  thin  white  nakedness,  cosmic  politi- 
cian. Give  them  the  mystic  vision.  They'll  see  it's 
good  and  honest  and  they'll  say  so  publicly  and 
then  no  one  from  the  police  or  the  narcotics  bureau 
can  put  them  down.  And  you're  the  perfect  persons 
to  do  it.  Big  serious  scientist  professors  from  Har- 
vard. That's  right.  I  can't  do  it.  I'm  too  easy  to  put 
down.  Crazy  beatnik  poet.  Let  me  get  my  address 


December  1960  00    127 


book.  I've  got  lots  of  connections  in  New  York  and 
we'll  go  right  down  the  list  and  turn  them  all  on. 

AND  WAILED  DOWN  WALL,  AND  THE  STATEN  ISLAND 
FERRY  ALSO  WAILED,  WHO  BROKE  DOWN  CRYING  IN 
WHITE  GYMNASIUMS  NAKED  AND  TREMBLING  BEFORE 
THE  MACHINERY  OF  OTHER  SKELETONS. 

AMERICA  IVE  GIVEN  YOU  ALL  AND  NOW  i'm  NOTHING. 

Allen  Ginsberg,  cosmic  crusader,  running  a  world- 
wide campaign  out  of  a  small  Lower  East  Side 
cold-water  flat,  helping  a  man  in  Scotland  start  a 
literary  magazine  by  sending  him  poems  from  a 
dozen  undiscovered  youngsters  in  blue  jeans,  anx- 
ious but  irrepressible,  protected  only  by  the  honest 
nakedness.  Allen  Ginsberg,  Zen  master  politician. 

AMERICA  AFTER  ALL  IT  IS  YOU  AND  I  WHO  ARE  PERFECT 
NOT  THE  NEXT  WORLD.  YOUR  MACHINERY  IS  TOO  MUCH 
FOR  ME.  YOU  MADE  ME  WANT  TO  BE  A  SAINT. 

Allen  explaining  his  nakedness.  When  men  set 
out  to  kill  and  bully  they  dress  up.  Suit  of  armor. 
Combat  boots.  Uniforms,  i'm  trying  to  come  to 

THE  POINT.  I  REFUSE  TO  GIVE  UP  MY  OBSESSION. 

Allen  Ginsberg  the  social-worker  politician  ex- 
plaining  the   sex-drug-freedom-ecstasy   movement. 

AMERICA  STOP  PUSHING  I  KNOW  WHAT  i'm  DOING.  Junk 

gives  peace,  relief  from  pain  and  a  shattering  cos- 
mic detachment.  But  the  relief  is  so  brief  and 
detachment  so  ruthlessly  physical  that  the  very 
weak  and  the  very  selfish  get  hooked.  Junkies  are 
the  confused  and  helpless  victims  of  a  one-sided 
game  they  started  with  the  police,   my  mind  is 

MADE  UP  THERE  IS  GOING  TO  BE  TROUBLE.  Who  Wants 

the  thankless  task  of  helping  the  tormented  ego- 
centricity  of  the  junkie?  Long  subway  rides  around 
Manhattan  to  borrow  money  to  get  the  junkie  to  a 
doctor.  America  i  am  addressing  you.  Endless  calls 
on  the  delicatessen  pay  phone  to  arrange  help. 
Locking  yourself  in  a  dingy  hotel  room  to  spend  the 
next  two  days  helping  the  sweating,  writhing  body 
kick  its  sickness.  And  the  ceaseless  politicking.  Lin- 
ing up  all  the  little  magazines  and  the  friendly 
reporters  to  give  a  favorable  review  to  the  Indiana 
University  book  which  shows  the  cruelty  and  futil- 
ity of  our  drug  laws.  America  this  is  quite  serious. 
Rushing  uptown  to  the  television  show  where  you 
tell  the  American  public  they  should  get  high  on 


Lafcadio  is  taking  danc- 
ing lessons — great — twice  a 
week — turns  out  pretty 
graceful  and  light  on  his 
feet. 


I'm  reading  Wilhelm  Reich 
and  I  think  he's  really 
great.  You  ever  pick  up  on 
him? 


.  .  .  to  translate  in  your 
terms,  says  the  formation 
of  abstractions  sets  in  after 
crippling  of  the  primary 
non-abstract  body  function, 
genital  communication  .  .  . 


.  .  .  the  genital  embrace  be- 
ing total  annihilation  of  in- 
dividuation and  formation 
of  a  new  third  being  of  two 
separate  identities  .  .  . 


.  .  .  if  the  individual  is 
blocked  from  experience  of 
that  communism  all  other 
reactions  (and  mental  life) 
will  be  screwed  up,  and  he 
describes  thus,  the  origin 
of  the  worldwide  emotional 
plague. 


Farrar  Straus  stocks  all  his 
previously  banned  books — 
see  the  Murder  of  Christ. 
Dave  Solomon  gave  LeRoi 
Jones  the  mushrooms  finally 
— very  good  results  too. 

00 


128  00    To  Turn-On  the  World 


ALLEN  GINSBERG 
APRIL  1961: 


Got  your  letter — all  sounds 
smashing  good  show  there. 
Saw  Monk  play  beautifully 
in  Olympia  theater  in  Paris, 
but  didn't  see  him  except 
on  stage — a  monk. 


I  receive  mail  safely  at 
American  Express,  11  Rue 
Scribe,  Paris,  France.  If  you 
have  a  sufficient  supply,  I 
would  like  to  have  some 
mushrooms  or  LSD. 


I  am  looking  for  French 
connection,  no  success  yet 
but  have  not  looked  inten- 
sively. Can  use  all  you  can 
send. 


Burroughs  is  in  Tangier, 
c/o  U.S.  Consulate.  He  or 
Brian  Gysin  et  my  mush- 
rooms. I'll  go  down  to  visit 
Burroughs  as  soon  as  fi- 
nancially able. 


.  .  .  All  three  of  us  down 
to  $80.00,  but  there  will  be 
loot  coming  in.  We  got  offer 
from  Gerodias  of  Olympia 
to  be  editors  of  a  big  time 
sexual  magazine,  free  hand 
with  vast  salaries  and  print 
anything  mad  we  want. 


pOt.  ID  BETTER  GET  RIGHT  DOWN  TO  THE  JOB.   In  the 

thirties  the  fight  to  save  the  poor.  In  the  forties  the 
fight  to  save  the  Jews.  In  the  fifties  the  fight  to  save 
the  junkie.  In  the  sixties  we'll  save  the  world,  its 

TRUE  I  DON'T  WANT  TO  JOIN  THE  ARMY  OR  TURN 
LATHES  IN  PRECISION  PARTS  FACTORIES. 

Now  Allen  Ginsberg,  stooping  over  the  kitchen 
table  peering  at  his  address  book.  There's  Robert 
Lowell  and  Muriel  Rukyser.  And  Kerouac,  of 
course,  and  LeRoi  Jones.  And  Dizzy  Gillespie  and 
Thelonious  Monk.  And  the  painters.  And  the  pub- 
lishers. He  was  chanting  out  names  of  the  famous 
and  the  talented.  He  was  completely  serious,  dedi- 
cated, wound  up  in  the  crusade,  i'm  nearsighted 

AND  PSYCHOPATHIC  ANYWAY.  AMERICA  i'm  PUTTING 
MY  QUEER  SHOULDER  TO  THE  WHEEL. 

And  so  Allen  spun  out  the  cosmic  campaign.  He 
was  to  line  up  influentials  and  each  weekend  I 
would  come  down  to  New  York  and  we'd  run 
mushroom  sessions.  This  fit  our  Harvard  research 
plans  perfectly.  Our  aim  there  was  to  learn  how 
people  reacted,  to  test  the  limits  of  the  drug,  to  get 
creative  and  thoughtful  people  to  take  them  and 
tell  us  what  they  saw  and  what  we  should  do  with 
the  mushrooms.  Allen's  political  plan  was  appeal- 
ing, too.  I  had  seen  enough  and  read  enough  in 
Spanish  of  the  anti-vision  crowd,  the  power-holders 
with  guns,  and  the  bigger  and  better  men  we  got 
on  our  team  the  stronger  our  position.  And  then 
too,  the  big-name  bit  was  intriguing.  Meeting  and 
sharing  visions  with  the  famous. 

The  ritual  was  to  be  the  curandero  sequence. 
These  people  will  have  more  confidence  in  you  than 
in  me,  said  Allen.  The  wise-guide  ritual  sounded 
good.  The  cause  was  right  and  the  contract  benefi- 
cial to  all  concerned.  We  were  after  all  offering  a 
free  round-trip  ticket  for  the  greatest  journey 
known  to  man.  From  this  moment  on  my  days  as  a 
respectable  establishment  scientist  were  numbered. 
I  just  couldn't  see  the  new  society  given  birth  by 
medical  hands.  Or  psychedelic  sacraments  as  psy- 
chiatric tools.  From  this  evening  on  my  energies 
were  offered  to  the  ancient  underground  society  of 
alchemists,  artists,  mystics,  alienated  visionaries, 
drop-outs  and  the  disenchanted  young,  the  sons 
arising. 


130  00    To  Turn-On  the  World 


Gregory  wants  to,  I'm  hesi- 
tating, Peter  still  wants 
India  directly.  If  I  accept  it 
means  being  tied  down 
here  in  Europe  a  year  or 
two,  but  also  weirdest  cen- 
tury literary  mag  yet.  I 
dunno. 


For  a  while  the  hobbits  continued  to  talk  and  think 
of  the  past  journey  and  of  the  perils  tliat  lay  ahead; 
but  such  was  the  virtue  of  the  land  of  Rivendell 
that  soon  all  fear  and  anxiety  was  lifted  from  their 
minds.  The  future,  good  or  ill,  was  not  forgotten, 
but  ceased  to  have  any  power  over  the  present. 
(The  Lord  of  the  Rings) 


I'll  probably  be  around  here 
when  you  come  in  June. 
Send  me  forms  to  fill  out 
as  I  gave  mushrooms  to 
Gregory.  Gysin  has  filled 
out  and  will  send  you  his. 


I  don't  know  him  well,  and 
no  intimate  contact  with 
him  emotionally,  tho  Bur- 
roughs thinks  we  should  dig 
each  other. 


Gysin  has  invented  a  great 
flicker  machine.  Dig  this — 
cut  out  10  apertures  on  a 
stovepipe  hat  or  piece  of 
cardboard  and  set  it  re- 
volving on  phonograph  at 
33  speed. 


It  flickers  and  is  homemade 
strobe.  I  looked  in  it — it 
sets  up  optical  fields  as  reli- 
gious and  mandalic  as  the 
hallucinogenic  drugs — liter- 
ally. 


.  .  .  (look  in  with  eyes 
closed) — it's  like  being  able 
to  have  jewelled  biblical  de- 
signs and  landscapes  with- 
out taking  chemicals.  Amaz- 
ing. 


It  was  around  midnight.  Donald  still  seemed 
high  and  would  walk  in  and  out  of  the  room, 
silently,  hands  behind  his  back,  Talmudic  raccoon, 
studying  the  kitchen  crowd  seriously,  and  then 
padding  out.  The  anthropology  student  had  joined 
us  around  the  table.  We  had  given  him  something 
to  drink  and  he  was  listening  to  the  conversation 
and  saying  nothing.  He  made  some  comment  about 
schedules  back  to  Cambridge  and  it  was  time  for 
him  to  make  the  last  train  so  I  drove  him  down  to 
the  station.  He  asked  some  questions  about  the 
scientific  meaning  of  the  mushroom  research  and  it 
was  clear  that  he  didn't  understand  what  had  hap- 
pened and  what  we  were  doing.  There  wasn't  time 
to  explain  and  I  felt  badly  that  he  had  been 
dragged  into  a  strange  situation.  We  had  made  the 
rule  that  people  could  bring  their  friends  when  they 
took  the  mushrooms  and  this  seemed  like  a  good 
idea  for  the  person  taking  the  mushrooms  but  it 
was  just  beginning  to  dawn  on  me  that  the  problem 
never  was  with  the  person  taking  the  drug  but 
rather  the  people  who  didn't.  Like  Brother  Toriblo 
the  Spanish  monk,  who  talked  about  cruelty  and 
drunkenness  caused  by  the  Sacred  Mushrooms.  It's 
okay  to  bring  a  friend,  but  he  should  take  the 
mushrooms  with  you.  And  poor  anthro,  it  turned 
out,  wasn't  even  a  friend  of  Donald's  and  as  it 
turned  out  didn't  like  him  and  he  was  clearly 
bewildered  by  and  critical  of  what  he  had  seen  and 
heard  and  the  nakedness  of  the  poets.  His  train  was 
about  due  and  I  was  too  preoccupied  by  what 
Allen  had  been  saying  to  feel  like  explaining  to 
anthro.  The  uneasy  feeling  persisted  and  I  sug- 
gested that  he  not  tell  people  about  the  mystic 
visions  and  the  naked  crusaders  because  this  might 
be  misunderstood  and  he  said  he  wouldn't  talk 
about  it  and  we  shook  hands  and  he  left. 

That  was  Sunday  night. 


December  1960  00    131 


By  Monday  afternoon  the  rumors  were  spreading 
around  the  Harvard  yard. 

Beatniks.  Orgies.  Naked  poets.  Junkies.  Homo- 
sexuality. Drug  parties.  Tried  to  lure  a  decent  naive 
graduate  student  into  sin.  Wild  parties  masquerad- 
ing as  research.  Queers.  Beards.  Criminal  types. 

The  chairman  of  my  department  called  me.  What 
the  hell  is  going  on,  Tim?  Two  graduate  students 
have  come  to  me  indignant— demanding  that  your 
work  be  stopped. 

I  laughed.  I'll  send  you  the  reports  from  the 
session  as  soon  as  they  are  typed.  It  was  a  good 
session.  God  would  approve.  We're  learning  a  lot. 

The  disapproving  gaze  of  the  establishment  was  on 
us.  You  should  fear  the  wary  eyes  of  the  servants 
of  Sauron  were  the  words  of  Elrond.  I  do  not  doubt 
that  news  .  .  .  has  already  reached  him,  and  he 
will  be  filled  with  wrath.  Naked  poets,  indeed! 


It  works.  Gysin  says  the 
apertures  have  to  be  mea- 
sured and  adjusted  right  to 
get  16  flickers  a  second  or 
something. 


He  also  paints  the  inside 
of  the  stovepipe-cardboard. 
Of  course,  you  have  to  drop 
an  electric  bulb,  I  forgot  it, 
in  the  center  of  it  to  flicker 
thru  apertures. 


I'll  try  to  connect  him  with 
a  toy  manufacturer — home- 
made optic  movies  possible. 


From  this  time  on  we  saw  ourselves  as  unwitting 
agents  of  a  social  process  that  was  far  too  powerful 
for  us  to  control  or  to  more  than  dimly  understand. 
An  historical  movement  that  would  inevitably 
change  man  at  the  very  center  of  his  nature,  his 
consciousness. 

We  did  sense  that  we  were  not  alone.  The  quest 
for  internal  freedom,  for  the  elixir  of  life,  for  the 
drought  of  immortal  revelation  was  not  new.  We 
were  part  of  an  ancient  and  honorable  fellowship 
which  had  pursued  this  journey  since  the  dawn  of 
recorded  history.  We  began  to  read  the  accounts  of 
earlier  trippers— Dante,  Hesse,  Rene  Daumal,  Tol- 
kien, Homer,  Blake,  George  Fox,  Swedenborg, 
Bosch,  and  the  explorers  from  the  Orient— tantrics, 
Sufis,  Bauls,  Gnostics,  hermetics,  Sivites,  saddhus. 
No,  we  were  not  alone. 

Nor  were  we  isolated  in  the  twentieth  century. 
The  three  groups  who  always  await  and  accept  the 
revelation  which  comes  in  every  historical  time 
were  present  in  full  and  goodly  numbers.  The 
young  (who  always  want  more  and  have  no  game 
to  protect ) ,  the  artists  ( who  always  hunger  for  the 
ecstatic  moment),  and  the  alienated  (the  wise 
slaves  and  noble  minority  groups  watching  from 
the  periphery  of  the  society ) . 


Burroughs'  present  cut 
up  operates — in  theory — on 
similar  flicker  principle — 
trying  to  play  his  words 
over  and  over  flashing  in 
different  combos  to  perhaps 
set  up  a  3-D  field  in  imagi- 
nation or  some  other  practi- 
cal level. 


Interesting  experiment  and 
more  grounded  in  practical 
constructive  purpose  than  I 
had  grasped — thought  be- 
fore it  was  just  a  negative 
thing  to  cut  up  life  or  re- 
combine  words  artistically. 


Can  you  send  me  a  pack  of 
psilocybin? — and  also  send 
the  forms,  they'll  be  filled 
out.  Here  is  Peter,  who  a 
half-hour  ago  shot  250  of 
mescaline  into  his  vein  with 
a  needle. 


132  00    To  Turn-On  the  World 


First,  yes,  also,  I  saw 
Michaux  who  has  just  fin- 
ished a  book  on  his  ex- 
periments with  mushroom 
pills  too — nice  old  man — 
says  it's  all  in  you  and  no 
outside  forces  or  gods 
too  .  .  . 


Peter  Orlovski:  Yes,  it's  all 
an  inward  force,  we  are  all 
God,  so  being  God  it  feels 
very  nice  to  shoot  up  mes- 
caline in  the  vein  which  I 
just  did  two  hours  ago — 
got  laid  last  night — so  many 
girls  here.  Now  that  I  am 
high,  would  like  to  see  this 
flicker 


.  .  .  but  it's  being  fixed — 
so  at  the  moment  the  world 
seems  very  physical  and  all 
the  physicalness  going 
somewhere — soup  on  the 
stove — it  all  boils  down  to 
ass  and  roses  on  the  table 
— you  been  able  to  turn-on 
Kennedy's  brother  yet? 
Kennedy  real  mean  to  Cas- 
tro and  acting  so  stupid  .  .  . 


.  .  .  instead  of  making 
friends — he's  giving  me  a 
bad  name — help — hey  Ken- 
nedy, why  don't  you  get 
laid  instead  of  fucking 
around  with  politics?  So 
Tim,  I've  been  studying 
French  here  and  going  to 
gym  with  a  funny  hard-on. 


The  success  of  the  psychedelic  movement  was 
guaranteed.  The  energies  released  by  the  sacred 
drugs  were  too  great  to  suppress. 

We  began  to  see  it  as  a  question  of  time.  The 
movement  would  grow  like  everything  organic 
grows,  cell  by  cell.  Friend  turning-on  friends.  Hus- 
bands turning-on  wives.  Teachers  turning-on  stu- 
dents. The  contagion  of  contiguity.  The  tissue 
underground. 

Shortly  after  Allen  Ginsberg  left,  we  made  statis- 
tical predictions  about  the  growth  of  the  psyche- 
delic movement.  We  drew  a  cumulative  percentage 
graph  and  hung  it  on  the  wall.  The  rapidly  ascend- 
ing curve  spelled  out  our  forecast. 

In  1961,  we  estimated  that  25,000  Americans  had 
turned-on  to  the  strong  psychedelics— LSD,  mesca- 
line, peyote.  (Marijuana  we  stayed  away  from.) 
This  figure  did  not  include  the  125,000  American 
Indians  who  use  peyote  as  their  sacrament  and  who 
were  there  as  an  inestimable  psychic  asset  when  we 
were  ready  to  use  it.  (It  is  no  accident  that  the 
psychedelic  movement  by  1967  was  a  tribal 
phenomenon. ) 

At  the  rate  of  cellular  growth  we  expected  that 
by  1967  a  million  Americans  would  be  using  LSD. 
We  calculated  that  the  critical  figure  for  blowing 
the  mind  of  the  American  society  would  be  four 
million  LSD  users  and  this  would  happen  by  1969. 

We  were  wrong  in  our  estimates.  We  were  too 
conservative.  By  1966  Life  magazine  announced 
that  a  million  Americans  were  using  LSD.  In  the 
spring  of  1966,  a  million  doses  a  month  were  being 
distributed  by  a  messianic  underground  in  Cali- 
fornia alone.  By  1967  four  million  Americans  had 
taken  the  trip.  In  June  of  1967,  an  album  by  the 
Beatles  which  openly  celebrated  the  psychedelic 
experience  sold  a  million  copies  the  first  week  of  its 
release. 

Our  forecast  was  off  because,  as  middle-aged 
professors,  we  counted  on  the  artists  and  the  mi- 
norities and  the  college  youth,  but  we  failed  to 
anticipate  the  use  of  LSD  by  high-school  kids.  In 
our  academic  isolation  we  forgot  that  for  thousands 
of  years  the  psychedelic  vision  has  been  the  rite  of 
passage  of  the  teen-ager— the  Dakota  Indian  boy 


December  1960  00    133 


who  sits  on  the  mountaintop  fasting  and  sleepless, 
waiting  for  the  revelation.  The  threshold  of  adult 
game  life  is  the  ancient  and  natural  time  for  the 
rebirth  experience,  the  flip-out  trip  from  which  you 
come  back  as  a  man.  A  healthy  society  provides  and 
protects  the  sacredness  of  the  teen-age  psychedelic 
voyage.  A  sick,  static  society  fears  and  forbids  the 
revelation. 

The  psychedelic  movement  was  to  develop  with- 
out organization,  without  leaders,  without  dogmatic 
doctrines  and  become  a  full-blown  religious  renais- 
sance of  the  young. 

It  moved  quickly,  always  shocking,  continually 
shattering  structures.  You  either  surrendered  to  the 
flow  and  went  with  that  full  tide  of  two  billion 
years,  or  you  were  thrown  to  the  bank  where  you 
shouted  stop!  danger!  medical  control!  evil!  scien- 
tific respectability!  and  despaired  that  your  words 
couldn't  slow  the  relentless  current. 

Allen  Ginsberg  came  to  Harvard  and  shook  us 
loose  from  our  academic  fears  and  strengthened 
our  courage  and  faith  in  the  process. 


Allen  Ginsberg:  That  was 
Peter,  half-hour  sitting  at 
typewriter — totally  high.  Lots 
happening  here,  a  great 
shade  (Negro)  painter  in 
town  who  tells  me  he 
stayed  high  on  mescaline  3 
months  last  year.  .  .  . 


Magnificent  imaginist  painter 
(new  school  we  named) — 
i.e.  visionary  literal  dream 
vision  or  waking  visionary 
imagery  as  subject,  break- 
thru  from  abstract — Greg- 
ory a  great  book — American 
Express  the  last  word  on 
cosmic  politics — 


A  dreamy  comedy  writ  like 
Candide  and  Alice  in  Won- 
derland, pix  by  author,  we'll 
send  you  a  copy — Bur- 
roughs one  of  the  goofy 
conspirers. 

00 


the  caldron.  Supreme  good  fortune 
Success.  (iching) 


i> 


You  Have  to  Go  Out  of  Your  Mind 
to  Use  Your  Head: 

> 

H 
8 

a 

o 
w 

H 
January  1961  g 

Guide:   frank  barron  <yj 

Oracle:  VI  S 

O 
Conflict  8 

O 


The  Creative,  Heaven 


The  Abysmal,  Water 


W 


Heaven  and  water  go  their  opposite  ways: 
The  image  of  conflict. 
Thus  in  all  his  transactions  the  superior  man 
Carefully  considers  the  beginning. 

(IChing) 


TRIP  7 


From  Within  and  Without  by 
Hermann  Hesse: 

There  was  once  a  man  by 
the  name  of  Frederick;  he 
devoted  himself  to  intel- 
lectual pursuits  and  had  a 
wide  range  of  knowledge. 
But  all  knowledge  was  not 
the  same  to  him,  nor  was 
any  thought  as  good  as 
any  other:  he  loved  a  cer- 
tain kind  of  thinking,  and 
disdained  and  abominated 
the  others.  What  he  loved 
and  revered  was  logic — that 
so  admirable  method — and, 
in  general,  what  he  called 
"science." 


"Twice  two  is  four,"  he 
used  to  say.  "This  I  be- 
lieve; and  man  must  do  his 
thinking  on  the  basis  of 
this  truth." 


Once  there  was  a  man  by  the  name  of  Arthur 
Koestler  who  was  painted  within  and  without  by 
Hermann  Hesse.  Whether  his  Sunday  Telegraph 
manuscript  needs  any  postductory  remarks  may  be 
open  to  question.  I,  however,  feel  the  need  of 
adding  a  few  pages,  in  which  I  try  to  record  my 
own  recollections  of  him.  What  I  know  of  him  is 
little  enough,  yet  the  impression  left  by  his  person- 
ality has  remained,  in  spite  of  all,  a  deep  and 
sympathetic  one. 

A.  K.  devoted  himself  to  intellectual  pursuits.  He 
had  given  up  the  novel  as  a  medium  of  teaching, 
and  had  a  wide  range  of  knowledge.  But  not  all 
knowledge  was  the  same  to  him.  Returning  to  his 
first  profession,  he  said  that  any  thought  was  not  as 
good  as  another.  He  preferred  science  and  report- 
ing. Science-reporting. 

He  loved  a  certain  kind  of  thinking,  confessing  to 
me  that  psychology  was  his  first  love,  the  profession 
in  which  he  felt  he  could  make  his  greatest  con- 
tribution. 

He  was  rewriting  an  earlier  book  on  creative 
thinking  (new  moves  on  the  mind  board)  and 
disdained  the  mystical  experience.  Insight  and  out- 
look is  what  he  called  science  once  in  a  Franco 
prison. 

In  1959  he  had  visited  India  in  search  of  truth 
and  meaning.  His  reactions  were  typical  of  the 
Western  rational  mind  overwhelmed  and  flipped- 
out  by  the  seething,  organic,  seed  squalor-beauty  of 
this  Holy  Land.  A  trip  to  India  is  a  full-blown  LSD 
experience— a  relentless  serpentine  uncoiling  of  un- 
washed earth-tissue.  People  react  to  India  the  way 
they  do  to  psychedelic  drugs— they  either  flow  with 
it  into  ecstatic  unsterile  union  with  mythic  all-life, 
or  they  recoil  behind  sterile  air-conditioned  tourist- 
hotel  plate  glass,  screaming  for  the  next  airplane  to 
136 


January  1961  00    137 


Beirut,  or  they  slog  through  it  unhappily  but  duti- 
fully, making  notes  as  did  dear,  sturdy,  sweating, 
pack-mind-on-back  Arthur  Koestler  through  his  two 
mushroom  sessions  and  his  journey  to  the  East. 

The  upper  trigram,  whose  image  is  heaven,  has  an 
upward  movement;  the  lower  trigram,  water,  in 
accordance  with  its  nature,  tends  downward.  Thus 
the  two  halves  move  away  from  each  other,  giving 
rise  to  the  idea  of  conflict.  ( I  Ching  VI ) 

He  wrote  a  book  about  the  East  called  The  Lotus 
and  the  Robot,  which  was  to  become  quite  relevant 
to  the  psychedelic  controversy.  He  held  a  low  opin- 
ion, which  explains  the  dark  expectations  which  he 
brought  to  his  psilocybin  experiences.  He  congratu- 
lated himself  on  his  rational  mind. 

He  was  not  really  intolerant  of  religion.  Although 
his  given  name  Artha  is  Sanskrit  for  the  acquisition 
of  power,  wealth,  or  fame,  his  cells  remembered  the 
paternal  name.  Artha  Khesaya,  flying  in  the  air, 
Artha  Kesava,  having  long  or  much  or  handsome 
hair,  Artha  Kohlasa,  name  of  a  raga,  Artha  Kohala, 
author  of  saga  ( to  whom  the  invention  of  the  soma- 
psychedelic  drama  is  attributed)  or  Artha  Kosala, 
Kingdom  of  India,  golden  age,  and  Artha  Kalidasa, 
ancient  sage. 

Fooled  by  little  pills  for  several  centuries,  Arthur 
Koestler  disliked  what  he  saw  in  the  East,  while  his 
science  embraced  nearly  everything  that  existed  on 
earth.  That  was  worth  knowing. 

He  said  that  both  India  and  Japan  seem  to  be 
spiritually  sicker,  the  human  soul  more  estranged 
and  to  tolerate  more  speculations  on  the  soul,  than 
the  West. 

Arthur  Koestler  was  a  rational  mind,  tolerant 
long  before  Aldous  Huxley  found  in  yoga  every- 
thing that  Arthur  Koestler  recognized  as  supersti- 
tion. A  remedy  for  our  Brave  New  World.  Without 
taking  seriously  what  Schopenhauer  called  the 
Upanishads,  the  consolation  of  his  life  was  pro- 
foundly odious  and  repugnant  to  him. 

Alien,  uncultured,  and  retarded  people  of  the 
first  generation  of  the  Nuclear  Age  might  occupy 
themselves  with  solace  in  Zen.  In  remote  antiquity 


He  was  not  unaware,  to  be 
sure,  that  there  were  other 
sorts  of  thinking  and  knowl- 
edge; but  they  were  not 
"science,"  and  he  held  a 
low  opinion  of  them  .  .  . 
everything  he  recognized  as 
superstition  was  profoundly 
odious  and  repugnant  to 
him.  Alien,  uncultured,  and 
retarded  people  might  oc- 
cupy themselves  with  it:  in 
remote  antiquity  there  may 
have  been  mystical  or 
magical  thinking:  but  since 
the  birth  of  science  and 
logic  there  was  no  longer 
any  sense  in  making  use  of 
these  outmoded  and  dubi- 
ous tools. 


So  he  said  and  so  he 
thought;  and  when  traces 
of  superstition  came  to  his 
attention  he  became  angry 
and  felt  as  if  he  had  been 
touched  with  something 
hostile. 


One  day  Frederick  went  to 
the  house  of  one  of  his 
friends  with  whom  he  had 
often  studied.  It  so  hap- 
pened that  he  had  not 
seen  this  friend  for  some 
time.  .  .  . 


During  a  pause  in  the  la- 
borious conversation  Fred- 
erick looked  about  the 
studio  he  knew  so  well  and 
saw,  pinned  loosely  on  the 
wall,  a  sheet  of  paper.  .  .  . 
He  stood  up  and  went  to 
the  wall  to  read  the  paper. 


138  00    You  Have  to  Go  Out  of  Your  Mind 


There,  in  Erwin's  beautiful 
script,  he  read  the  words: 
"Nothing  is  without,  noth- 
ing is  within."  There  it  was! 
There  he  stood  face  to  face 
with  what  he  feared!  .  .  . 
What  stood  written  here,  as 
an  avowal  of  his  friend's 
concern  at  the  moment, 
was  mysticism!  Erwin  was 
unfaithful! 


"This  is  the  way,"  Erwin 
replied,  and  perhaps  you 
have  already  taken  the  most 
difficult  step.  You  have 
found  by  experience:  the 
without  can  become  the 
within.  You  have  been  be- 
yond the  pair  of  antitheses. 
It  seemed  hell  to  you;  learn, 
it  is  heaven!  For  it  is 
heaven  that  awaits  you. 
Behold,  this  is  magic;  to 
intercharge  the  without  and 
the  within,  not  by  compul- 
sion, not  in  anguish,  as  you 
have  done  it,  but  freely,  vol- 
untarily. Summon  up  the 
past,  summon  up  the  fu- 
ture: both  are  in  you!  Until 
today  you  have  been  the 
slave  of  the  within.  Learn 
to  be  its  master.  That  is 
magic. 

00 


when  the  West  groaned  under  the  weight  of  mental 
knapsacks,  receptivity  to  the  voice  of  mystical  or 
magical  thinking  was  limited  to  periods  of  spiritual 
emergency,  drugs  on  the  brain.  But  since  the  birth 
of  science  to  moods  of  futility  and  despair,  there 
was  no  longer  any  sense  in  making  use  of  such 
outmoded  self -congratulation  and  dubious  tools. 

So  he  said  and  so  he  thought.  He  traveled  in 
India  and  Japan  (in  1958-59)  when  traces  of 
superstition  came  to  the  mood  of  the  pilgrim.  He 
became  angry  like  countless  others  before  and  felt 
that  he  had  been  touched.  Whether  the  East  had 
any  answer  to  offer— something  hostile  to  our  per- 
plexity and  deadlocked  problems— he  was  not  to  be 
fooled  by  little  pills. 

It  angered  him,  striking  the  olfactory  note.  He 
found  such  traces  among  his  own  sort,  which 
guided  his  reactions  among  educated  men  conver- 
sant with  the  culture  of  Asia.  The  principles  of 
scientific  thinking.  Sober  self-control.  Self. 

The  sewers  of  Bombay  had  been  opened  by 
mistake  and  nothing  was  more  painful  and  intoler- 
able to  him  than  the  damp  heat  impregnated  by  the 
scandalous  notion  which  lately  by  their  stench  in- 
vaded the  air-conditioned  cabin.  He  had  sometimes 
heard  expressed  and  discussed  the  moment  the 
door  of  the  Viscount  was  opened  by  men  of  great 
culture.  As  we  descended  the  steps,  that  absurd 
idea  that  a  wet,  smelly  diaper  (scientific  thinking 
around  my  head )  was  possibly  not  a  supreme,  time- 
less, eternal,  foreordained  and  unassailable  mode  of 
thought  by  some  abominable  joker. 

The  second  half  of  the  book,  but  one  of  many, 
was  a  transient  way  of  thinking,  permeated  with 
the  stink  of  Zen,  not  impervious  to  change.  This 
irreverent,  destructive,  poisonous  note  a  phrase 
often  used  in  Zen  literature,  wrong  kind. 

Even  Arthur  Koestler  could  not  deny  it  and  thus 
in  a  sense  came  back  impoverished,  cropping  up 
here  and  there  as  a  result  of  the  distress  throughout 
the  world,  rather  than  enriched,  no  merit.  A  ra- 
tional mind.  Like  a  warning,  like  a  white  hand's 
ghostly  writing  that  his  place  was  Europe  in  the 
center  of  his  mind. 

The  more  Arthur  Koestler  suffered  from  looking 
at  this  tiny  continent,  puffing  and  panting  up  the 


January  1961  00    139 


steep  path.  This  idea  existed  from  the  vastness  of 
Asia  and  could  so  deeply  distress  him,  while  gain- 
ing a  fresh  impression  the  more  passionately  his 
compactness  and  coherence  assailed  it,  and  those 
he  secretly  suspected  of  believing  in  it. 

Conflict  develops  when  one  feels  himself  to  be  in 
the  right  and  runs  into  opposition.  (I  Ching  VI) 

I  started  my  journey  so  far  only  a  very  few  little 
pills  among  the  truly  educated  in  sackcloth  and 
ashes.  Challenging  Aldous  Huxley  who  had  openly 
and  frankly  defended  the  drug  cult.  He  came  back 
rather  proud,  a  rational  mind  professing  belief  in 
this  doctrine.  Of  being  a  European.  It  may  be 
parochial  pride,  an  answer.  A  doctrine  seemed 
destined,  but  it  was  not  smug.  Should  it  gain  in 
circulation:  drugs  on  drain,  different  look,  sudden 

EFFECT.  WRONG  KIND.  NO  MERIT.  AN  ANSWER.   Power 

for  a  Hungarian-born.  French-loving.  English 
writer.  To  destroy  all  spiritual  values  on  earth  with 
some  experience  of  prison  and  concentration  camps 
to  call  forth  chaos. 

One  cannot  help  being  aware.  Well,  matters  had 
not  reached  Europe's  past  sins— that  point  yet  of 
present  deadly  peril.  The  scattered  individuals  who 
openly  embraced  a  detached  comparison  with  other 
continents.  The  idea!  no  merit.  Of  the  way  Europe 
stood  up  still  so  few  in  number  that  they  could  be 
considered  oddities  to  its  past  trials  and  of  its 
contribution  to  man's  history.  Sober  self-control. 

Peculiar  fellows.  But  a  drop  of  the  poison  leaves 
one  with  a  new  confidence.  An  emanation  of  that 
idea  and  affection  for  that  small  figure,  Hungarian- 
born,  could  be  perceived  first  on  this  side,  then 
riding  the  back  of  the  Asian  bull. 

Among  the  half-educated  A.K.'s  portrait  of  him- 
self could  be  a  small  figure  compact  and  coherent. 
drugs  on  the  rrain.  Esoteric  doctrines,  sects,  and 
discipleships  sketched  with  accuracy.  The  world 
was  full  of  the  struggle  of  the  European  mind  and 
the  Asian  bull.  Everywhere  one  could  scent  his 
tormented  search  for  verbal  meaning.  Superstition. 
Science.  Mysticism.  Franco  prison.  Science.  Zionism. 
Spiritualistic  cults.  Communism.  Insight  and  Out- 
look. Other  mysterious  forces.  It  was  really  neces- 


From  The  Lotus  and  the 
Robot  by  Arthur  Koestler: 

The  sewers  of  Bombay  had 
been  opened  by  mistake,  I 
was  told,  before  the  tide 
had  come  in.  The  damp 
heat,  impregnated  by  their 
stench,  invaded  the  air-con- 
ditioned cabin  the  moment 
the  door  of  the  Viscount 
was  opened.  As  we  de- 
scended the  steps  I  had 
the  sensation  that  a  wet, 
smelly  diaper  was  being 
wrapped  around  my  head 
by  some  abominable  joker. 
This  was  December;  the 
previous  day  I  had  been 
slithering  over  the  frozen 
snow  in  the  mountains  of 
Austria. 

Lilies  that  fester  smell  far 
worse  than  weeds;  both 
India  and  Japan  seem  to 
be  spiritually  sicker,  more 
estranged  from  a  living 
faith  than  the  West.  To  look 
to  Asia  for  mystic  enlight- 
enment and  spiritual  guid- 
ance has  become  as  much 
of  an  anachronism  as  to 
think  of  America  as  the 
Wild  West. 

...  I  started  my  journey  in 
sackcloth  and  ashes  and 
came  back  rather  proud  of 
being  a  European.  It  may 
be  a  somewhat  parochial 
pride,  but  it  is  not  smug, 
for,  as  a  Hungarian-born, 
French-loving,  English  writ- 
er with  some  experience  of 
prisons  and  concentration 
camps,  one  cannot  help 
being  aware  of  Europe's 
past  sins  and  present 
deadly  peril.  And  yet  a 
detached  comparison  with 
other  continents  of  the  way 
Europe  stood  up  to  its  past 
trials,  and  of  its  contribu- 
tion to  man's  history,  leaves 
one  with  a  new  confidence 
and  affection  for  that  small 
figure  riding  on  the  back  of 
the  Asian  bull. 

00 


140  00    You  Have  to  Go  Out  of  Your  Mind 


From  "Return  Trip  to  Nir- 
vana" by  Arthur  Koestler, 
in  the  London  Sunday  Tele- 
graph: 

A  few  weeks  ago  I  received 
a  letter  from  a  friend,  an 
American  psychiatrist  work- 
ing at  Harvard  University: 


DEAR  K: 

Things  are  happening  here 
which  I  think  will  interest 
you.  The  big,  new  hot  issue 
these  days  in  many  Ameri- 
can circles  is  DRUGS.  We 
believe  that  the  synthetics 
of  the  cactus  peyote  (mes- 
calin)  and  the  mushroom 
(psilocybin)  offer  possibili- 
ties for  expanding  con- 
sciousness, changing  per- 
ceptions, removing  abstrac- 
tions. .  .  . 


We  are  offering  the  experi- 
ence to  distinguished  cre- 
ative people.  Artists,  poets, 
writers,  scholars.  We've 
learned  a  tremendous 
amount  by  listening  to  them. 
...  If  you  are  interested 
I'll  send  some  mushrooms 
over  to  you.  ...  I'd  like  to 
hear  about  your  reac- 
tion. .  .  . 


Shortly  afterwards,  I  had  to 
go  to  the  University  of 
Michigan  at  Ann  Arbor.  I 
had  been  invited  there  for 
quite  different  reasons,  but 
on  the  first  morning  of  my 
stay  the  subject  of  the 
magic  mushroom  cropped 
up. 


sary  to  combat.  But  which  science?  It  was  as  if  a 
private  feeling  of  weakness,  to  which  a  generation 
of  postwar  intellectuals  owed  their  political  libera- 
tion, had  for  the  present  been  given  free  rein. 

I  first  met  A.K.  in  London  in  1959.  Always 
haunted  by  what  he  termed  monumental  feelings  of 
inferiority,  he  called  up  my  aunt,  beloved  Whit- 
taker  Chambers,  to  inquire  for  a  furnished  room. 
Feelings  of  inferiority.  He  went  one  day  to  the 
house  of  one  of  his  friends.  He  was,  in  fact,  as  he 
called  himself,  a  real  wolf  of  the  steps.  Isolated 
from  life  by  his  categorizing  mind.  It  so  happened 
that  he  had  not  seen  the  friend  for  some  time. 
Hello.  Yogi/commissar!  Arrival/ departure!  Blanch- 
ing he  stood  motionless  for  a  moment.  Lotus/ 
Robot!  Promise/fulfillment!  There  it  was!  There  he 
stood  face-to-face  with  what  he  feared!  Endlessly 
dancing  the  old  Aristotelian  two-step.  Certainly!  he 
cried.  Of  course  I  know  it.  Age  of  longing  at  the 
twilight  bar.  Its  mysticism,  its  gnosticism! 

You  look  at  A.K.  and  see  the  face  of  Europe's 
history,  into  which  his  life  had  drifted  on  account 
of  his  disposition  and  destiny.  And  how  consciously 
he  accepted  this  I  certainly  did  not  know  until  I 
read  the  records  he  left  behind  him.  Rational  mind. 
Congratulations.  A  new  epistemology?  Is  there  such 
a  thing?  In  the  haunting  eyes  and  the  furrowed 
face-skin.  This  is  the  way,  Erwin  replied.  On  this 
frail  hinge  Koestler  swung  the  fate  of  a  generation 
of  European  political  thought.  And  perhaps  you 
have  already  taken  the  most  difficult  step.  Oh  ra- 
tional mind  of  Europe!  You  have  found  by  experi- 
ence. Jewish.  Hungarian.  Austrian.  French.  Ger- 
man. English.  All  under  one  skull.  The  without  can 
become  the  within.  Great  God!  What  does  not 
stand  classified  as  man  or  wolf  he  does  not  see  at 
all.  The  noble  arrogance  of  the  self-assigned  task! 
Once  A.K.  had  been  beyond  the  pair  of  antitheses. 
In  the  Franco  cell  he  was  floating  on  his  back  in  a 
river  of  peace  under  bridges  of  silence.  It  seemed 
hell  to  him.  It  came  from  nowhere  and  flowed 
nowhere.  Learn,  my  friend,  it  is  heaven!  There  was 
no  river  and  no  I.  For  it  is  heaven  that  awaits  you. 
The  J  had  ceased  to  exist.  Behold,  this  is  magic.  But 
now  he  puffs  and  pants  up  the  steep  path  groaning 


January  1961  00    141 


under  the  load  of  mind.  To  interchange  the  without 
and  the  within,  not  by  compulsion.  In  this  way  he 
was  always  recognizing  and  affirming  with  one-half 
of  himself,  in  thought  and  act,  what  with  the  other 
half  he  fought  and  denied.  His  rational  mind  need 
not  crouch  ready  to  categorize  and  evaluate  every 
new  event,  each  new  experience.  Not  in  anguish,  as 
he  did  it,  but  freely,  voluntarily.  Your  poor  mind 
need  not  be  the  fulcrum  upon  which  galaxies  turn. 
Summon  up  the  past.  Your  frail  cortex  need  not 
support  the  weight  of  the  universe,  explaining, 
ordering,  labeling  everything  that  occurs.  Summon 
up  the  future.  Both  are  in  you.  You  need  no  longer 
judge  the  good  and  evil  of  each  new  flick  of  cosmic 
process.  Until  today  you  have  been  the  slave  of  the 
within.  Learn  to  be  its  master. 

If  a  man  is  entangled  in  a  conflict,  his  only  salvation 
lies  in  being  so  clear-headed  and  inwardly  strong 
that  he  is  always  ready  to  come  to  terms  by  meeting 
the  opponent  halfway.  ( I  Ching  VI ) 


DRUGS  ON   BRAIN 

This,  however,  was  not 
much  of  a  coincidence  as 
at  the  present  moment  a 
surprising  number  of  Ameri- 
cans, from  Brass  to  Beat, 
seem  to  have,  for  different 
reasons,  drugs  on  the  brain; 
the  Brass  because  they  are 
worried  about  brainwash- 
ing and  space-flight  train- 
ing; the  Beat  because  drugs 
provide  a  rocket-powered 
escape  from  reality;  the  Or- 
ganization Men  because 
tranquillisers  are  more  ef- 
fective than  the  homely  as- 
pirins and  fruitsalts  of  yore; 
and  the  spiritually  frus- 
trated on  all  levels  of  so- 
ciety because  drugs  prom- 
ise a  kind  of  do-it-yourself 
approach  to  Salvation. 


The  heavy  weight  of  rationalism.  Cruel  doctrine 
of  individual  will.  I,  Arthur  Koestler,  believe  in  one 
God  the  creator  of  Heaven  and  Earth.  One  mind. 
One  judicial  authority  to  make  a  billion  decisions 
each  second  that  the  planet  turns.  The  billion-fold 
moral  judgments.  You  favor  tolerance  toward  all 
religions  and  all  political  systems.  What  about  Hit- 
ler's gas  chambers?  The  old  Zen  monk  looks  at  the 
tense,  alert  European  visitor  and  smiles.  When  you 
ask  these  logical  questions  we  feel  embarrassed, 
said  the  Buddhist. 

The  Aristotelian  intellectual!  Tell  me,  Maria,  how 
can  you  have  fondness  for  him,  a  tiresome  old 
logician  with  no  looks,  who  even  has  gray  hair  and 
doesn't  play  a  saxophone  and  doesn't  sing  any 
English  love  songs,  whose  only  security  rests  on  his 
ability  to  rationalize  each  new  experience?  Most  of 
that  sort  instinctively  refuse  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  psychedelic  chemicals.  At  times  Maria,  too, 
availed  herself  of  Pablo's  secret  drugs  and  was 
forever  procuring  these  delights  for  me  also.  A  few 
adventurous  or  courageous  intellectuals  have  made 
the  psychedelic  voyage  and  struggle  throughout  the 


The  psychiatrist  in  charge 
of  the  mushroom  was  an 
Englishman  of  the  quiet, 
gentle  and  unAmerican 
kind.  Based  on  his  own 
experiences  and  on  experi- 
ments with  ten  test-sub- 
jects, he  ventured  the  cau- 
tious and  tentative  opinion 
that  compared  with  the 
fashionable  wonder-drugs, 
mescalin  and  lysergic  acid, 
the  effect  of  the  mushroom 
was  relatively  harmless  and 
entirely  on  the  pleasant, 
euphoric  side. 


142  00    You  Have  to  Go  Out  of  Your  Mind 


It  is  well  known  that  the 
mental  attitude,  the  mood 
in  which  one  enters  the 
gates  of  mushroomland, 
plays  a  decisive  part  in  de- 
termining the  nature  of  the 
experience.  Since  Dr.  P. 
was  such  a  pleasant  per- 
son and  the  atmosphere  of 
Ann  Arbor  appealed  to  me, 
I  volunteered  as  a  guinea 
pig,  though  I  felt  a  little 
guilty  towards  my  enthusi- 
astic friend  in  Harvard. 
However,  on  the  day  before 
I  took  the  drug,  I  had  a 
very  unpleasant  experience 
— with  the  result  that  I 
faced  the  mushrooms  in  an 
anxious  and  depressed 
state. 


They  come  synthesized,  in 
the  shape  of  little  pink  pills. 
I  swallowed  nine  of  them 
(18  mg.  of  psilocybin), 
which  is  a  fair-sized  dose 
for  a  person  of  my  weight. 
They  were  supposed  to 
start  acting  after  thirty  min- 
utes. 


However,  for  nearly  an  hour 
nothing  at  all  happened.  I 
was  chatting  with  Dr.  P.  and 
one  of  his  assistants,  first 
in  his  office,  then  in  a  room 
which  had  a  comfortable 
couch  in  it  and  a  tape  re- 
corder; after  a  while  I  was 
left  alone  in  the  room,  but 
Dr.  P.  looked  in  from  time 
to  time.  I  lay  down  on  the 
couch,  and  soon  began  to 
experience  the  kind  of  phe- 
nomena which  have  been 
repeatedly  described  by 
people  who  experimented 
with  mescalin. 


session  to  impose  their  minds.  Pablo  was  always 
most  markedly  on  the  alert  to  be  of  service  to  him. 
Once  he  said  to  A.K.  without  more  ado,  You  always 
try  to  keep  the  experience  under  mental  control. 
That  is  bad.  One  shouldn't  be  like  that.  The  mind  is 
by  definition  anti-ecstasy.  Try  a  mild  pipe  of 
hashish.  The  psychedelic  session  is  the  final  ordeal 
of  rationality.  We  became  friends  and  he  took  some 
of  my  specifics.  The  test  completed,  he  wrote  his 
report  in  the  Sunday  Telegraph  explaining  away 
what  his  rebellious  cortex  tried  to  do  to  the  sym- 
metry of  his  verbal  mind.  Once  I  gave  him  a  drink 
from  three  little  bottles,  a  mysterious  and  wonder- 
ful draught.  And  then  when  he  had  got  into  a  very 
good  humor,  we  proposed  to  celebrate  a  love  orgy. 
He  declined  abruptly. 

When  we  started  our  research  at  Harvard  I  wrote 
to  A.K.  telling  him  about  the  mystical  experiences 
we  were  encountering  and  inviting  him  to  partici- 
pate in  a  love  feast.  Brother  Arthur,  I  invite  you  to 
a  little  entertainment.  For  madmen  only  and  the 
price— your  mind.  Are  you  ready?  An  immediate 
reply.  A.K.  was  coming  to  the  U.S.  and  would  like 
very  much  to  come  to  Harvard  and  try  the  mush- 
rooms. 

A  few  days  before  his  scheduled  arrival  a  phone 
call  came  from  New  York.  In  somber  tones  A.K. 
said  that  he  had  already  taken  psilocybin  with  a 
psychiatrist  in  Michigan  and  had  a  hellish  paranoid 
experience.  For  God's  sake,  let's  snap  out  of  it.  He 
had  no  desire  whatsoever  to  make  the  voyage  again 
—transformed  into  the  claws  of  a  predatory  bird. 
Never.  No  thanks.  Wrong  kind.  No  merit.  He  made 
repeated  efforts  to  walk  out  of  the  show.  Drugs  on 
the  brain.  He  was  powerless  against  the  delusion. 

Well,  why  not  come  up  to  Harvard  anyway  and 
look  around  and  see  what  we're  doing?  Agreed. 

Arthur  Koestler  was  an  object  of  interest  and 
admiration  at  Harvard.  The  top  scholars  come  to 
the  center  to  pay  homage.  A  list  of  appointments 
was  quickly  set  up.  It  was  quite  a  ball.  A  thin- 
skinner  professor  told  him  that  Hindus  must  be 
conditioned  like  animals  to  give  up  religious  super- 
stition. He  felt  in  his  waistcoat  pocket— the  number 
was  no  longer  there!  Miss  Jerry  Burner  with  her 


January  1961  00    143 


bruner  left  hand  praised  him  for  the  limpid  elasser 
sparkling  in  the  thick  peasant  glass.  I'd  have  loved 
to  have  danced  with  you  again,  he  said,  intoxicated 
by  her  warmth.  ( Later  he  worried  that  Jerry  would 
steal  his  numbered  ideas.  The  devil  was  in  it  if  ever 
these  failed  him!)  Waltzing  masked  around  the 
Harvard  Yard,  watching  A.K.'s  charm  and  alert 
mind  playing  at  the  intellectual  game. 

From  All  Ports  a  gordon  dancing  girl  flung  her- 
self into  his  arms.  Dance  with  me!  I  can't,  he  said, 
I'm  bound  for  hell. 

The  second  afternoon,  there  was  an  hour  free  so  I 
phoned  over  to  the  Massachusetts  Mental  Health 
Institute  to  see  about  arranging  a  dance  with  one  of 
the  world's  top  neurologists.  Of  all  the  surprises  I 
had  prepared  for  him,  this  was  to  be  the  most 
violent. 

For  have  no  moment  of  doubt  that  it  was  I  who 
brought  this  bird  of  paradise  who  was  delighted  to 
be  our  host  at  his  special  table  at  the  Ritz  Bar. 

So  far,  he  said,  I  have  control.  That  was  fine.  The 
schedule  was :  drinks  at  the  Ritz,  dinner  at  the  Steel 
Helmet  in  Boston  with  the  Frank  Barrons,  and  then 
an  evening  at  the  Magic  Theater  for  A.K.  to  observe 
a  psilocybin  session  run  under  easygoing,  suppor- 
tive circumstances  for  madmen  only. 

To  put  on  a  good  mushroom  ritual,  I  had  wired 
up  to  Charles  Olson,  our  father  who  art  in  Glouces- 
ter. The  giant  Olson,  genial  guru,  father  of  modern 
poetry.  Unfortunately  it  is  a  habit,  a  vice  of  his, 
always  to  speak  his  mind,  as  indeed  Goethe  did  in 
his  better  moments.  A  few  years  previous  he  had 
retired  to  a  rocky  promontory  overlooking  the 
harbor  whence  he  served  as  guide  and  friend  to  our 
work.  Olson  dominates  any  gathering  with  his  size, 
his  wit,  his  intellect,  his  noble  stature,  his  wise 
animal  energy.  He  was  striving  for  redemption  but 
it  will  take  him  all  his  time.  He  was  the  person, 
surely,  to  introduce  Arthur  Koestler  to  the  open- 
brain  and  its  ecstatic  possibilities. 

On  the  way  to  the  Ritz,  A.K.  told  us  of  two  dear 
friends  of  his,  Moses  and  Jehovah,  who  had  re- 
searched mescaline  in  Berlin  during  the  twenties. 
Their  psychedelic  sessions  kept  opening  up  more 
and  more  realms  of  experience  and  revelation.  Dr. 


When  I  closed  my  eyes  I 
saw  luminous,  moving  pat- 
terns of  great  beauty,  which 
was  highly  enjoyable;  then 
the  patterns  changed  into 
planaria — a  kind  of  flat- 
worm  which  I  had  watched 
under  the  microscope  the 
previous  day  in  a  labora- 
tory; but  the  worms  had  a 
tendency  to  change  into 
dragons,  which  was  less 
enjoyable,  so  I  walked  out 
of  the  show  by  opening  my 
eyes. 


I  tried  it  again,  directing  the 
beam  of  the  table-lamp, 
which  had  a  strong  bulb, 
straight  at  my  closed  eye- 
lids, and  the  effect  was 
quite  spectacular — rather 
like  the  explosive  paintings 
of  schizophrenics,  or  Walt 
Disney's  Fantasia. 


A  flaming  eddy,  the  funnel 
of  a  tornado,  appeared  over 
my  head,  drawing  me  up- 
ward; with  a  little  auto-sug- 
gestion and  self-dramatisa- 
tion I  could  have  called  it  a 
vision  of  myself  as  the 
prophet  Elijah  being  taken 
to  Heaven  by  a  whirlwind. 
But  I  felt  that  this  was  buy- 
ing one's  visions  on  the 
cheap  (Carter's  mushrooms 
are  the  best;  mystic  experi- 
ence guaranteed  or  money 
refunded);  so  I  again 
walked  out  of  the  show  by 
forcing  my  eyes  to  open.  It 
was  as  simple  as  that,  and 
I  congratulated  myself  on 
my  sober  self-control,  a 
rational  mind  not  to  be 
fooled  by  little  pills. 


144  00    You  Have  to  Go  Out  of  Your  Mind 


DIFFERENT  LOOK 

By  now,  however,  even  with 
open  eyes,  the  room  looked 
different.  The  colours  had 
become  not  only  more  lumi- 
nous and  brilliant,  but  dif- 
ferent in  quality  from  any 
colour  previously  seen; 
they  were  located  outside 
the  normally  visible  spec- 
trum, and  to  refer  to  them 
one  would  have  to  invent 
new  words — so  I  shall  say 
that  the  walls  were  breen, 
the  curtain  darsh,  and  the 
sky  outside  emerdine.  Also, 
one  of  the  walls  had  ac- 
quired a  concave  bend  like 
the  inside  of  a  barrel,  the 
plaster  statue  of  the  Venus 
of  Milo  had  acquired  a  grin, 
and  the  straight  dado-line 
was  pleasantly  curved, 
which  struck  me  as  an  ex- 
ceedingly clever  joke. 


But  all  this  was  quite  un- 
like the  wobbling  world  of 
drunkenness,  for  the  room 
was  plunged  into  an  under- 
water silence,  where  the 
faint  hum  of  the  tape  re- 
corder became  obtrusively 
loud,  and  the  almost  im- 
perceptible undulations  of 
the  curtains  became  the 
Ballet  of  the  Flowing  Folds 
(the  undulations  were 
caused  by  the  warm  air 
ascending  from  the  central- 
heating  body). 


Moses  climbing  Sinai,  a  gloomy  hero  in  a  gloomy 
wilderness  of  rocks,  and  Dr.  Jehovah  in  the  midst 
of  storm  and  thunder  and  lightning  imparting  the 
Ten  Commandments,  while  worthless  friends  set 
up  the  Golden  Calf  at  the  foot  of  the  kurfursten- 
damm.  They  tried  to  tell  others  about  their  dis- 
coveries but  no  one  would  listen,  neither  their 
colleagues  nor  their  families.  Mighty  Dr.  Jehovah 
and  Dr.  Moses,  with  a  dark  and  fiery  eye  and  the 
stride  of  Wotan,  finally  got  to  a  point  where  they 
could  only  communicate  with  each  other.  I  saw 
them  pray  at  the  edge  of  the  Red  Sea.  Flipped-out 
together  they  had  a  rapport  and  high  pitch  of 
understanding  in  Handel's  wonderful  duet  for  two 
basses  in  which  this  event  is  magnificently  sung.  To 
the  rest  of  the  world  they  were  hopeless  eccentrics. 
So  strange  and  incredible  to  be  looking  on  at  all 
this.  A.K.'s  medical  friend  suddenly  seeing  sacred 
peyote  writ,  with  its  heroes  and  its  wonders,  the 
source  in  our  childhood  of  the  first  dawning  suspi- 
cion of  another  world  than  this,  presented  before  a 
distasteful  public  that  sat  eating  the  provisions 
brought  with  it  from  home. 

Finally  the  social  pressure  was  too  great  and  they 
cracked  under  the  strain.  A  nice  picture,  indeed, 
picked  up  by  chance  in  the  huge  wholesale  clear- 
ance of  culture  in  these  days.  Jehovah  went  to 
Mexico  where  he  died  in  short  time.  Moses,  with 
dark  and  fiery  eye  and  a  long  staff  and  the  stride  of 
Wotan;  went  to  Munich  where  he  was  treated  by  a 
monster  of  a  psychiatrist  who  failed  to  understand 
him.  My  God,  rather  than  come  to  such  a  pass,  it 
would  have  been  better  for  the  Jews  and  everyone 
else,  let  alone  the  Germans,  to  have  perished  in 
those  days,  forthwith  of  a  violent  and  unbecoming 
death  instead  of  this  dismal  pretense  of  dying  inch 
by  inch  that  we  go  in  for  today.  Quitting  treatment, 
the  friend  returned  to  Berlin  and  killed  himself. 

At  the  Ritz  the  neurologist  was  waiting  at  his 
special  table.  His  secretary  was  with  him  and  the 
waitress  hovered  by  solicitously.  So  far,  he  said,  I 
have  contented  myself  with  turning  the  heads  of 
ladies.  But  now  your  time  has  come.  First,  let's 
have  a  glass  of  champagne. 


v. 


I 


146  00   You  Have  to  Go  Out  of  Your  Mind 


A  narrow  strip  of  the  re- 
volving spool  of  the  tape  re- 
corder caught  the  gleam  of 
the  lamp  every  few  sec- 
onds; and  this  faint,  inter- 
mittent spark,  unnoticed  be- 
fore, observed  out  of  the 
corner  of  the  eye  on  the 
visual  periphery,  became 
the  revolving  beam  of  a 
miniature  lighthouse.  This 
lowering  of  the  sensory 
threshold  and  simultaneous 
heightening  of  the  inten- 
sity and  emotional  signifi- 
cance of  perceptions,  is 
one  of  the  basic  phe- 
nomena of  the  mushroom 
universe.  The  intermittent 
light-signal  from  the  slowly 
revolving  spool  became  im- 
portant, meaningful  and 
mysterious;  it  had  some 
secret  message.  Afterwards 
I  remembered,  with  sympa- 
thetic understanding,  the 
fantasies  of  paranoiacs 
about  hidden  electric  ma- 
chines and  other  contrap- 
tions planted  by  their 
enemies  to  produce  evil 
Rays  and  Influences. 


SUDDEN  EFFECT 

The  signalling  tape  re- 
corder was  the  first  symp- 
tom of  a  chemically-in- 
duced state  of  insanity.  The 
full  effect  came  on  with  in- 
sidious smoothness  and 
suddenness.  Dr.  P.  came 
into  the  room,  and  a  minute 
or  two  later  I  saw  the  light 
and  realised  what  a  fool  I 
had  been  to  let  myself  be 
trapped  by  his  cunning 
machinations.  For  during 
that  minute  or  two  he  had 
undergone  an  unbelievable 
transformation. 


Arthur  Koestler  made  a  quip  about  their  mutual 
European  background  which  the  psychiatrist 
avoided.  A.K.'s  eyes,  wolf  of  the  steps,  narrowed, 
and  mild  dislike  grew  quickly  to  strong  distaste. 
Couldn't  stand  a  person  who  denies  his  racial  past. 

A  long  anatomical  argument  began.  Like  t^o 
teletype  machines,  the  men,  chattering  neurol  gy 
tapes,  sank  slowly  down  into  a  soggy  whisky 
swamp  of  sullen  generalization.  The  neurologist, 
pressed  by  Koestler's  finny  logic,  flopped  through 
the  undergrowth  of  swizzle  sticks  and  olives.  Poised 
on  an  island  of  potato  chips  he  denied  there  was 
such  a  thing  as  a  midbrain.  A.K.  surfaced  to  lob 
glances  of  resignation  our  way. 

Keep  quiet  with  your  questions  and  chatter,  said 
the  neurologist.  I'm  a  professor  of  theology,  if  you 
want  to  know.  But  the  Lord  be  praised,  there's  no 
occasion  for  theology  now,  my  boy.  It's  war.  Come 
on.  Then  Koestler's  face  grew  tense.  What  did  you 
say  your  name  was?  he  asked  the  neurologist.  Ah. 
And  did  you  ever  have  a  patient  by  the  name  of 
Dr.  Moses?  No.  He  remembered  no  such  patient. 
Moving  in  like  a  cross-examiner,  A.K.  sketched  in 
more  details  about  his  friend,  about  his  problems, 
his  history,  his  appearance— dark  and  fiery  eye— 
and  a  long  staff— and  the  stride  of  Wotan. 

Slowly  the  neurologist  remembered.  Oh  yes,  now 
that  you  remind  me,  I  do  seem  to  remember  treat- 
ing the  case. 

Treat  him,  indeed,  retorted  A.K.  sternly.  I  saw 
him  pray  to  God  at  the  edge  of  the  Red  Sea,  and  I 
saw  the  Red  Sea  parted  to  give  free  passage,  a  deep 
road  between  piled-up  mountains  of  water.  And  by 
the  way,  do  you  have  any  idea  what  became  of 
him?  No,  said  the  neurologist.  I  last  saw  him  climb- 
ing Sinai,  a  gloomy  hero  in  a  gloomy  wilderness  of 
rocks.  I  was  about  to  ask  you  if  you  knew  of  the 
outcome  of  the  case. 

A.K.  breathed  heavily.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he 
killed  himself  in  Berlin  the  following  year. 

A  sudden  quiet  settled  down  over  the  table. 
(The  confirmation  classes  conducted  by  the  clergy 
to  see  this  religious  film  could  argue  without  end  as 
to  how  the  film  people  managed  this.)  Neurologist 
puffed  quickly  at  cigar  and  called  the  waitress  over. 
A  nice  picture,  indeed,  picked  up  by  chance  in  the 


January  1961  00    147 


huge  wholesale  clearance  of  culture  these  days. 

Then  the  Barrons  arrived,  Frank  poised  and 
cheerful  and  his  new  wife,  Nancy,  radiant  and 
bouncing.  On  and  on  went  their  nuptial  dance.  God 
knows  where  the  girl  got  her  voice;  it  was  so  deep 
and  good  and  maternal.  Obediently  I  shut  my  eyes, 
leaned  my  head  against  the  wall,  and  heard  the 
roar  of  a  hundred  mingled  voices  surge  around  me. 
After  another  drink  we  moved  to  leave  the  neurol- 
ogist. Outside,  the  air  coming  off  the  Boston  Com- 
mon was  clear  and  fresh.  We  had  all  escaped  from 
an  especially  grim  mental  hospital.  Somewhere  we 
heard  a  door  bang,  a  glass  break,  a  titter  of 
laughter  die  away,  mixed  with  the  angry  hurried 
noise  of  motorcars  starting  up.  We  felt  close  to- 
gether after  the  ordeal  and  drove  to  the  North  End 
for  seafood.  You're  ready?  Far  up  in  unhuman 
space  rang  out  that  strange  laugh.  A.K.,  bubbling 
with  spirit,  ordered  wines  and  made  a  gallant  scene 
with  Nancy. 

When  we  arrived  back  at  the  house,  Charles 
Olson  was  in  the  kitchen  leaning  over,  talking  to 
young  Jack  Leary,  his  back  to  us.  I  brought  A.K.  up 
to  Olson.  The  giant  poet  turned,  looked  down  at 
the  small  figure  of  the  novelist,  and  beamed  out  of 
his  jolly  eyes  that  really  were  animal's  eyes,  except 
that  animal's  eyes  are  always  serious,  while  his 
always  laughed  and  turned  into  human  eyes. 

Olson  was  holding  a  toy  pistol  in  his  hand. 

Arthur  Koestler's  eyes  went  up,  up,  up  to  look  at 
Olson  and  then  dropped  quickly  to  the  pistol.  He 
paled  and  pulled  back.  There  he  stood  face-to-face 
with  what  he  feared. 

Olson  roaring  out  genial  greetings.  Brother 
Harry,  I  invite  you  to  a  little  entertainment.  For 
madmen  only,  and  one  price  only— your  mind.  Are 
you  ready?  Coats  removed,  the  group  assembled  in 
the  study.  Why  then  was  Hermine  so  white?  Why 
was  Pablo  talking  so  much?  A  low  built-in  couch 
ran  along  two  sides  of  the  room,  intersecting  at  the 
corner.  A  large  round  table  strung  people  out  in  the 
form  of  a  circle.  Highballs.  We  planned  the  session. 
My  friends,  I  have  invited  you  to  an  entertainment 
that  Harry  has  long  worked  for  and  of  which  he  has 
long  dreamed. 

Olson  and  Leary  and  Barron  and  a  Harvard 


It  started  with  the  colour 
of  his  face,  which  had  be- 
come a  sickly  yellow.  He 
stood  in  a  corner  of  the 
room  with  his  back  to  the 
green  wall,  and  as  I  stared 
at  him  his  face  split  into 
two,  like  a  cell  dividing, 
then  reunited  again,  but  by 
this  time  the  transformation 
was  complete.  A  small  scar 
on  the  doctor's  neck  which 
I  had  not  noticed  before, 
was  gaping  wide,  trying  to 
ingest  the  flesh  of  the  chin; 
one  ear  had  shrunk,  the 
other  had  grown  by  several 
inches;  the  face  became  a 
smirking,  evil  phantasm. 
Then  it  changed  again,  into 
a  different  kind  of  Hogar- 
thian  vision,  and  these 
transformations  went  on  for 
what  I  imagined  to  be  sev- 
eral minutes. 


All  this  time  the  doctor's 
body  remained  unchanged; 
the  hallucinations  were 
confined  to  the  space  from 
the  neck  upward;  and  they 
were  strangely  two-dimen- 
sional, like  faces  cut  out  of 
cardboard.  The  phenome- 
non was  always  strongest 
in  that  corner  of  the  room 
where  it  had  first  occurred, 
and  faded  into  less  offen- 
sive distorting-mirror  ef- 
fects when  we  moved  else- 
where, although  the  light- 
ing of  the  room  was  uni- 
form. 


The  same  happened  when 
other  members  of  the  staff 
joined  us  later.  One  of 
them,  the  jovial  Dr.  F.,  was 
transformed  into  a  vision  so 
terrifying— a  Mongol  with 
a  broken  neck  hanging  from 
an  invisible  gallows — that  I 
thought  I  was  going  to  be 
sick;  yet  I  could  not  stop 
myself  staring  at  him.  In 
the  end  I  said:  For  God's 
sake  let's  snap  out  of  it, 
and  we  moved  into  another 
part  of  the  room,  where 
the  effect  became  weaker. 


148  00    You  Have  to  Go  Out  of  Your  Mind 


As  the  last  remark  indi- 
cates, I  was  still  in  control 
of  my  outward  behaviour, 
and  this  remained  true 
throughout  the  whole  three 
or  four  hours  of  the  experi- 
ence. But  at  the  same  time 
I  had  completely  lost  con- 
trol over  my  perception  of 
the  world.  I  made  repeated 
efforts  "to  walk  out  of  the 
show"  as  I  had  been  able 
to  do  during  the  first  stages 
on  the  couch,  but  I  was 
powerless  against  the  delu- 
sions. I  kept  repeating  to 
myself:  But  these  are  nice, 
friendly  people,  they  are 
your  friends,  and  so  on.  It 
had  no  effect  whatsoever 
on  the  spontaneous  and  in- 
exorable visual  transforma- 
tions. 


I  have  mentioned  before  that 
all  of  Dr.  P.'s  previous  sub- 
jects had  positive  euphoric 
experiences;  I  "broke  the 
series,"  as  he  ruefully  re- 
marked over  post-mortem 
drinks. 


I  had  met  the  mushroom  in 
the  wrong  state  of  mind, 
owing  to  that  incident  on 
the  previous  day,  which 
had  awakened  memories  of 
past  experiences  as  a  po- 
litical prisoner,  and  of  past 
preoccupations  with  brain- 
washing, torture  and  the 
extraction  of  confessions. 
The  phantom  faces  were  ob- 
vious projections  of  a  deep- 
seated  resentment  against 
being  "trapped"  in  a  situa- 
tion which  carried  symbolic 
echoes  of  the  relation  be- 
tween prisoner  and  inquisi- 
tor, of  Gestapo  and  GPU. 


graduate  student  named  Lynn  were  to  take  psilocy- 
bin.  The  hour  is  late  and  no  doubt  we  are  all 
fatigued.  Nancy  Barron  and  Nunez  and  Rhona 
were  to  act  as  ground  control.  So  first  we  will  rest 
and  refresh  ourselves  a  little.  A.K.  would  observe. 
From  a  recess  in  the  wall  I  took  a  quaint  little 
bottle,  also  a  small  oriental  box  inlaid  with  dif- 
ferently colored  woods.  We  were  sitting  around  the 
table  and  the  pills  were  counted  out  for  each 
voyager.  A.K.  had  gotten  over  the  shock  of  meeting 
Olson  and  the  toy  pistol  and  was  in  fine  spirits, 
watching  intently.  When  the  last  person  had  taken 
his  potion,  A.K.  reached  over  and  said,  Let  me  go 
along  too.  He  took  ten  tablets  and  washed  them 
down  with  his  drink.  So  he  did,  perched  on  his 
stool,  while  the  dance  went  on  around  us  to  the 
lively  strain  of  the  strings.  The  ship  cast  off. 

We  sat  listening  to  the  hi-fi.  Its  effect  was  en- 
livening and  delightful.  Light  conversation.  Olson 
was  spread  out  over  the  couch,  center  of  a  giggling 
admiring  group,  as  though  one  were  filled  with 
gas. 

We  who  had  shared  the  psychotomimetic  cocktail 
session  at  the  Ritz  and  had  no  longer  any  gravity 
were  reviewing  the  day's  events  quietly.  The  soft 
peace  of  the  mushroom  began  to  descend.  Jangled, 
racing  minds  began  to  purr  smoothly.  Every 
moment  we  felt  ourselves  growing  lighter  and  more 
serene.  The  few  words  spoken  were  concise  Zen 
Koans,  questions  answered  in  the  asking.  From  far 
away  came  Pablo's  warm  voice.  A  candle  flame  on 
the  circular  table  flickered  softly  saying,  It  is  a 
pleasure  to  me,  my  dear  Harry,  to  have  a  Spanish 
guitar  concerto,  pure  notes  of  thin  steel  and  the 
privilege  of  being  your  host  in  a  small  way  on  this 
occasion. 

Olson  played  gestural  games  with  a  sofa  cushion. 
A  quietly  circling  thread  of  closeness  wove  us  to- 
gether. You  have  often  been  sorely  weary  of  your 
life.  When  eyes  met,  they  sent  rays  of  amused 
understanding.  You  were  striving,  were  you  not?  So 
here  we  are.  Born  and  dying  together.  A  longing  to 
forsake  this  world  and  its  reality.  The  incredible 
accidental— chance  nature  of  our  existence,  our 
sharing  this  quick  intersection  in  astrophysical 
space-time  to  penetrate  to  a  reality  more  native,  to 


January  1961   00    149 


a  world  beyond  time.  The  glance  of  recognition. 
We  love,  we  love,  we  are  all  burnished  copper 
atoms— conductive— on  the  same  humming  wire  of 
energy.  We  know,  of  course,  where  this  other  world 
lies  hidden. 

Nancy  and  Frank  Barron  were  looking  into  each 
other's  eyes.  It  is  the  world  of  your  own  soul  that 
you  seek.  They  rose.  Nancy  laughed  and  did  a 
swirling  dance,  radiant,  and  then  they  were  gone. 

Bach's  ivory  ping-pong  ball  bouncing  precise 
down  steel-wire  tympanic  membrane.  Only  within 
yourself  exists  that  other  reality  for  which  you  long. 
Rhona  and  Lynn  giggling  fondly  at  Olson's  Mo- 
hawk Sachem  funny  chief ness.  A.K.,  lost  in  har- 
monic nets  strung  aloft.  I  can  give  you  nothing  that 
has  not  already  its  being  within  yourself.  The  room 
rolling  gently  to  ocean-swells  of  vibration.  I  can 
throw  open  to  you  no  picture  gallery  but  your  own 
soul.  Look,  he  is  rewriting  an  earlier  book  in  a  river 
of  peace. 

We  are  all  burnished  copper  atoms;  your  rational 
mind  need  not  crouch  on  humming  wires  of  energy. 
All  I  can  give  you  is  the  opportunity,  the  impulse, 
the  key.  A.K.'s  face  was  now  a  rich  purple.  Moving 
in  like  a  cross-examiner,  A.K.,  haunting  eyes  and 
furrowed  face-skin,  was  supporting  the  weight  of 
the  universe.  Bach's  ivory  ping-pong  balls  drowning 
out,  his  lips  moving  rapidly.  I  help  you  to  make 
your  own  world  visible.  That  is  all.  He  puffs  and 
pants  up  the  steep  path  groaning.  But  no  one  is 
listening. 

Rhona  and  Lynn  giggling  fondly  at  Olson's 
bridges  of  silence.  Waterfalls  of  thin  steel  notes 
muffling  mind  words. 

Now  I  will  conduct  you  to  my  peep-show  and 
show  you  my  little  theater.  Will  you  come?  pres- 
sure-cooker mysticism.  A.K.'s  soundless  face  be- 
gan to  declaim  about  the  ordeal  completed.  The 
mind  by  definition  is  anti-ecstasy.  This  little  theater 
of  mine  has  as  many  doors  into  as  many  boxes  as 
you  please.  A  piece  of  chamber  music  played.  He 
was  explaining  that  two  times  two  is  pressure- 
cooker  mysticism  but  no  one  listened.  Ten  or  a 
hundred  or  a  thousand,  and  behind  each  door 
exactly  what  you  seek  awaits  you.  This  struck  me  as 
obscene,  more  so  than  four-letter  words,  in  the 


WRONG  KIND 

Poor  Dr.  P.  and  his  nice 
colleagues  had  to  endure 
what  they  would  call  a 
"negative  transference," 
and  serve  as  projection 
screens  for  the  lantern 
slides  of  the  past,  stored 
in  the  mental  underground. 
Thus  I  was  a  rather  unfor- 
tunate choice  for  a  guinea 
pig — except  perhaps  to 
demonstrate  what  mush- 
roomland  can  do  to  the 
wrong  kind  of  guinea  pig; 
and  I  suspect  that  a  sizable 
minority  of  people  who  try 
for  a  chemical  lift  to 
Heaven,  will  find  themselves 
landed  in  the  other  place. 


I  do  not  want  to  exaggerate 
the  small  risks  involved  in 
properly  supervised  experi- 
ments for  legitimate  re- 
search purposes;  and  I  also 
believe  that  every  clinical 
psychiatrist  could  derive 
immense  benefits  from  a 
few  experiments  in  chem- 
ically-induced, temporary 
psychosis,  enabling  them  to 
see  life  through  their  pa- 
tients' eyes.  But  I  disagree 
with  the  enthusiast's  belief 
that  mescalin  or  psilocybin, 
even  when  taken  under  the 
most  favourable  conditions, 
will  provide  artists,  writers, 
or  aspiring  mystics  with 
new  insights,  or  revelations 
of  a  transcendental  nature. 


I  profoundly  admire  Aldous 
Huxley,  both  for  his  philos- 
ophy and  uncompromising 
sincerity.  But  I  disagree 
with  his  belief  that  drugs 
can  procure  "what  Catholic 
theologians  call  a  gratui- 
tous grace."  Chemically-in- 
duced raptures  may  be 
frightening  or  wonderfully 
gratifying;  in  either  case 
they  are  in  the  nature  of 
confidence  tricks  played  on 
one's  own  nervous  system. 


150  00    You  Have  to  Go  Out  of  Your  Mind 


NO  MERIT 

I  think  I  understood  the  rea- 
son for  this  when  I  took  the 
mushroom  the  second  time, 
under  more  happy  and  re- 
laxed conditions.  This  was 
in  the  apartment  of  my  Har- 
vard friend;  there  were  six 
of  us  in  a  convivial  atmos- 
phere. We  all  took  various 
amounts  of  the  pill,  and  this 
time  I  took  a  little  more 
(either  22  or  24  mg.  for  I 
lost  count). 


Again  there  were  delusions: 
the  room  expanded  and 
contracted  in  the  most  ex- 
traordinary manner,  like  an 
accordion  played  slowly, 
but  the  faces  around  me 
changed  only  slightly  and 
in  a  pleasant  way,  becom- 
ing more  beautiful.  Then 
came  the  Moment  of  Truth: 
a  piece  of  chamber  music 
played  on  a  tape  recorder. 
I  had  never  heard  music 
played  like  that  before,  I 
suddenly  understood  the 
very  essence  of  music,  the 
secret  of  its  magic.  .  .  . 


Unfortunately,  I  was  unable 
to  tell  the  next  day  whether 
it  had  been  a  quartet  or  a 
quintet  or  a  trio,  and 
whether  by  Mendelssohn  or 
Bach.  I  may  just  as  well 
have  listened  to  Liberace. 
It  had  nothing  to  do  with 
genuine  appreciation  of  mu- 
sic; my  soul  was  steeped  in 
cosmic  schmalz. 


BELOVED  AUSTRIAN  MOUNTAINS  OF  MY  SCHOOL  DAYS 
IT  IS  A  PRETTY  CABINET  OF  PICTURES,  MY  DEAR  FRIEND. 

A  small  figure,  compact  and  coherent,  soundlessly 
lectures  astride  the  Asian  bull.  It  would  be  quite 
useless  for  you  to  go  through  it  as  you  are.  took  us 

FOUR   OR   FIVE    HOURS    TO    CLIMB   TO   THE    7,000-FOOT 

peak.  Sober  self-control!  You  would  be  checked  and 
blinded  at  every  turn  by  what  you  are  pleased  to 
call  your  personality.  A  small  compact  figure,  Jew- 
ish, Hungarian,  Austrian,  now  standing  in  front  of 
the  group,  gesticulating  earnestly. 

You  have  no  doubt  guessed  long  since  that  the 
conquest  of  time  and  the  escape  from  reality, 
words,  it  seemed  hell  to  you,  came  from  nowhere 
and  flowed  nowhere,  or  however  else  it  may  be  that 
you  choose  to  describe  your  longing,  puffing  and 
panting  up  the  steep  path.  Rhona  and  Lynn  and 
Olson  look  up  curiously  at  the  frail  cortex  explain- 
ing, ordering,  labeling  everything.  Meaning  simply 
the  wish  to  be  relieved  of  your  so-called  person- 
ality, no  merit.  There  he  was,  face-to-face  with 
what  he  feared,  an  American  writer  whom  he 
otherwise  liked.  That  is  the  prison  where  you  lie. 
drugs  on  the  brain.  A.K.  breathed  heavily,  the 
virtue  of  sweat  and  toil.  You  are  therefore  re- 
quested to  be  so  kind  as  to  leave  your  highly 
esteemed  personality  here  where  you  will  find  it 
again.  In  making  use  of  such  outmoded  self-con- 
gratulation and  dubious  tools,  my  soul  was  steeped 
in  cosmic  schmaltz.  Be  as  jolly  as  you  can.  wrong 
kind. 

The  virtue  of  sweat  groans  under  the  load.  To 
teach  you  to  laugh  is  the  whole  aim.  What  is  he 
talking  about?  Questioning  glances.  You  feel  quite 
well,  I  trust?  zen  enlightenment  seemed  the  ulti- 
mate profanation.  Not  afraid?  That's  good,  ex- 
cellent. Come,  dear  compact  figure;  join  the  thread 
of  closeness  weaving  us  together,  reproach  of 
artificiality,  huxley.  Gesticulates,  face  cut  out  of 
cardboard.  You  will  now,  without  fear  and  with 
wonderful  pleasure,  enter  our  visionary  world,  you 
Americans!  drugs  on  the  brain.  American  effi- 
ciency short-cuts  cosmic  awareness.  You  will  in- 
troduce yourself  to  it  by  means  of  a  trifling  suicide. 

Their  intersection  in  astrophysical  space-time  is 
different  from  those  who  arrive  by  motorcar,  wrong 


January  1961   00    151 


kind.  We  are  in  a  magic  theater:  a  world  of  pic- 
tures. So  I  again  walked  out  of  the  show  by  forcing 
my  eyes  to  open.  I  congratulated  myself  on  my 
sober  self-control,  a  rational  mind  not  to  be  fooled 
by  a  little  Moment  of  Truth.  See  that  you  pick  out 
beautiful  and  cheerful  ones  and  show  that  you 
really  are  not  in  love  with  your  highly  questionable 
personality  any  longer.  Good  night.  A.K.  waved, 
face  crinkling  in  parochial  pride.  He  left  the  room. 
For  madmen  only?  Long  moments  followed  the 
departure.  Bach's  stringed  clock  ticked  song  of 
planetary  motion.  In  dead  silence.  He  was  gone. 

Fearing  a  return  of  Michigan  paranoia,  I  fol- 
lowed after.  Knocked  softly  at  his  door.  Barron's 
merry  voice  shouts  come  in.  Barron?  In  Arthur 
Koestler's  room?  Entered,  i  was  greatly  cheered 

AT  FINDING  THAT  I  COULD  ESCAPE  FROM  THAT  CURSED 

wolf  world  and  went  in.  Barron  jolly.  We  didn't 
know  this  was  K's  room.  We  just  fell  into  the  first 
room  we  saw.  K  came  in  to  go  to  bed.  You  should 
have  seen  his  face  when  he  saw  us.  i  kept  repeat- 
ing TO  MYSELF,  BUT  THESE  ARE  NICE  FRIENDLY  PEOPLE, 
THEY    ARE    YOUR    FRIENDS,    AND    SO    FORTH.    Was    he 

upset?  No.  I'd  say  startled.  Very  apologetic. 
Where'd  he  go?  Don't  know.  Backed  out  muttering 
forgiveness. 

Checking  guest  rooms  down  the  hall.  Arthur. 
Arthur.  Knocking  softly,  Arthur.  I  still  knew  him 
well  enough,  and  he  still  bore  a  faint  resemblance 
and  yet  he  had  grown  a  few  centuries  older.  Yes?  Is 
it  you,  Pablo?  Come  in.  Where  are  we?  A.K.  was  in 
bed.  Giggling.  Radiating  pleasure.  High.  We  are  in 
my  Magic  Theater.  Sailing  high.  But  I'm  bound  to 
say,  Harry,  you  have  disappointed  me  a  little.  Life 
is  a  song.  Life  is  beautiful.  Life  is  the  golden  dream 
of  a  lotus  princess  on  a  bed  of  lilies.  You  forget 
yourself  badly. 

The  next  morning  when  I  woke  him  up  to  start 
the  round  of  Harvard  appointments,  A.K.  sat  up  in 
bed.  Those  pills  last  night  didn't  affect  me  at  all. 
You  broke  through  the  humor  of  my  little  theater 
and  tried  to  make  a  mess  of  it. 

In  times  of  strife,  crossing  the  great  water  is  to  be 
avoided,  that  is,  dangerous  enterprises  are  not  to  be 
begun,  because  in  order  to  be  successful  they  re- 


I  sobered  up,  though,  when 
a  fellow  mushroom-eater 
— an  American  writer  whom 
otherwise  I  rather  liked — 
began  to  declaim  about 
Cosmic  Awareness,  Ex- 
panding Consciousness,  Zen 
Enlightenment,  and  so  forth. 
This  struck  me  as  obscene, 
more  so  than  four-letter 
words,  this  pressure-cooker 
mysticism  seemed  the  ulti- 
mate profanation.  But  my 
exaggerated  reaction  was 
no  doubt  also  mushroom- 
conditioned,  so  I  went  to 
bed. 


AN  ANSWER 

In  "Heaven  and  Hell,"  de- 
fending the  mescalin  ec- 
stasy against  the  reproach 
of  artificiality,  Huxley,  the 
most  highly  respected  ex- 
ponent of  the  cult,  argues 
that,  in  one  way  or  another, 
all  our  experiences  are 
chemically  conditioned;  and 
that  the  great  mystics  of  the 
past  also  worked  systemati- 
cally to  modify  their  body 
chemistry  .  .  .  starving 
themselves  into  low  blood 
sugar  and  a  vitamin  de- 
ficiency. .  .  .  They  sang 
interminable  psalms,  thus 
increasing  the  amount  of 
carbon  dioxide  in  the  lungs 
and  the  bloodstream,  or,  if 
they  were  Orientals,  they 
did  breathing  exercises  to 
accomplish  the  same  pur- 
pose. 


152  00    You  Have  to  Go  Out  of  Your  Mind 


There  is,  of  course,  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  truth  in  this 
on  a  purely  physiological 
level,  but  the  conclusions 
which  Huxley  draws,  and 
the  advice  he  tenders  to 
modern  man  in  search  of  a 
soul,  are  all  the  more  dis- 
tressing: "Knowing  as  he 
does  .  .  .  what  are  the 
chemical  conditions  of 
transcendental  experience, 
the  aspiring  mystic  should 
turn  for  technical  help  to 
the  specialists  in  pharma- 
cology, in  bio-chemistry,  in 
physiology  and  neurology." 
I  would  like  to  answer  this 
with  a  parable.  In  the  be- 
loved Austrian  mountains 
of  my  school  days,  it  took 
us  about  five  to  six  hours 
to  climb  a  7,000-foot  peak. 
Today,  many  of  them  can 
be  reached  in  a  few  min- 
utes by  cable-car  or  ski-lift, 
or  even  by  motorcar.  Yet 
you  still  see  thousands  of 
schoolboys,  middle-aged 
couples  and  elderly  men 
puffing  and  panting  up  the 
steep  path,  groaning  under 
the  load  of  their  knapsacks. 
When  they  arrive  at  the  al- 
pine refuge  near  the  sum- 
mit, streaming  with  sweat, 
they  shout  for  their  tradi- 
tional reward — a  glass  of 
schnapps  and  a  plate  of 
hot  pea-soup.  And  then  they 
look  at  the  view — and  then 
there  is  only  a  man  and  a 
mountain  and  a  sky. 


My  point  is  not  the  virtue 
of  sweat  and  toil.  My  point 
is  that,  although  the  view 
is  the  same,  their  vision  is 
different  from  those  who  ar- 
rive by  motorcar. 

00 


quire  concerted  unity  of  forces.  Conflict  within 
weakens  the  power  to  conquer  danger  without. 
(IChingVI) 

The  next  evening  on  the  way  home  A.K.  bought 
two  bottles  of  French  wine,  chosen  with  care,  a 
flask  of  Scotch,  and,  gently  from  behind  clenched 
teeth,  asked:  And  if  I  do  not  submit?  We  sat  in  the 
library  starting  to  work  on  the  whisky.  K  held  up 
his  glass  and  shook  it  with  an  icy  tinkle.  And  if  I 
deny  your  right,  Mozart,  to  interfere  with  the  Step- 
penwolf,  and  to  meddle  in  his  destiny?  I'll  stick  to 
my  drug.  Alcohol  is  a  social  stimulant.  It  warms 
you  up;  brings  you  closer  to  people.  Mushrooms  are 
non-social.  They  whirl  you  inside.  Bring  you  closer 
to  yourself.  Give  me  alcohol  any  day. 

Oh,  dear  Arthur,  I'm  bound  to  say  I  thought  you 
had  learned  the  game  better. 

Next  day  as  we  walked  into  the  airport  building 
at  Logan  field  to  see  him  off,  A.K.  made  his  final 
comment.  You  must  admit  that  these  drugs  cause 
psychosis.  A  temporary  psychosis.  I'm  bound  to  say, 
Harry,  you  broke  through  the  humor  of  my  little 
theater.  A  benign  and  educational  psychosis,  if  you 
will.  Would  you  say  it's  therapeutic?  Therapeutic. 
Of  course.  That's  what  the  effect  should  be  called. 
ttp.  instant  mysticism.  Temporary  therapeutic 
psychosis. 

The  metal  ramp  was  wheeled  away  and  the  metal 
door  closed.  Four  motors  roared,  and  the  huge 
metal-magic  bird  lumbered  down  the  concrete  strip. 

There  he  went  in  the  aluminum  box.  Did  he 
understand  Pablo?  Mozart?  Had  a  glimpse  of  its 
magic  stirred  his  reason?  Would  he  sample  its 
tortures  once  more?  Traverse  once  more  the  hell  of 
inner  being? 

Would  he  one  day  learn  to  laugh?  Would  I? 
Pablo  was  waiting  for  us  both.  And  Mozart  too. 

I  drove  back  to  Harvard  and  went  by  Frank 
Barron's  office  to  tell  him  about  my  disappointment. 
Why  hadn't  we  been  able  to  turn-on  Arthur 
Koestler? 

Frank  pulled  at  his  chin  thoughtfully.  Koestler 
was  lonely  last  night.  Koestler  is  a  man  and  a  man 
needs  a  woman.  Everyone  else  at  the  session  had  a 
mate.  He  was  left  out.  Behind  all  this  psychology 


January  1961   00    153 


and  science  business  there  are  basicMssues  of  life 
which  you  have  to  take  account  of.  If  you  ignore 
them  you'll  always  be  disappointed  in  your  ses- 
sions. God  and  sex  are  always  with  us. 

Frank  Barron's  wry  comments  focused  on  an 
aspect  of  the  psychedelic  experience  that  I  wasn't 
ready  to  come  to  terms  with.  It  was  becoming 
glaringly  obvious  that  extraordinary  sexual  energies 
could  be  released. 

Frank  was  right.  God  and  sex  are  the  two  central 
beats  of  the  dance.  The  mind  muffles  and  disguises 
the  reality  tune.  Blow  the  mind  and  you  are  left 
with  God  and  life— and  life  is  sex. 

This  was  obvious  in  my  first  trip  in  Mexico- 
languorous  Mandy  melting  and  the  deep  lingering 
of  the  Cherokee  princess,  Betty. 

Whenever  trouble  appeared  in  a  session,  it  meant 
isolation  from  God  and  mate.  The  fear,  the  confu- 
sion, could  always  be  calmed  by  prayer  or  loving 
fleshly  contact. 

The  raw,  electric,  shuddering  sensitivity  of  the 
psychedelic  experience!  We  were  dealing  with  a 
powerful  aphrodisiac,  probably  the  most  powerful 
sexual  releaser  known  to  man.  The  effect  was  sen- 
sory—contact was  intensified  thousand-fold  but 
also  deeper.  The  union  was  not  just  your  body  and 
her  body  but  all  of  your  racial  and  evolutionary 
entities  with  all  of  hers.  It  was  mythic  mating. 
Neurological  union.  Cellular  sex.  Archetypes  merg- 
ing. It  was  the  direct  reliving  of  thousands  of 
matings.  She  was  an  insect-queen  buried  deep  in 
the  damp  tunnels  of  the  ant  hill  humming  with 
genetic  energy  and  you  burrowed  down  dark  to 
find  her.  She  was  a  bird  of  plumage  trembling  in 
the  thicket  for  your  feathered  embrace.  She  was  a 
taxi-dancer  from  Alexandria. 

The  psychedelic  drugs  exploded  sex  right  off  the 
pages  of  Playboy  into  new  dimensions  of  union  that 
my  mind  wasn't  ready  to  handle. 

And  what  was  more  awesome  still  was  the  after- 
effect. You  came  out  of  a  session  with  changed 
emotions.  New  attractions  and  repulsions  devel- 
oped. There  was  the  session  with  the  graduate 
student  couple.  He  wandered  around  murmuring 
ecstatically  about  his  new  insights  into  space,  time, 
meaning.  She  lay  by  the  fire  with  her  arms  over  her 


From  Steppenwolf  by  Her- 
man Hesse: 

We  joined  him  when  he 
beckoned  and  in  the  door- 
way he  said  to  me  in  a 
low  voice:  Brother  Harry,  I 
invite  you  to  a  little  enter- 
tainment. For  madmen  only, 
and  one  price  only — your 
mind.  Are  you  ready? 


Again  I  nodded. 


The  dear  fellow  gave  us 
each  an  arm  with  kind 
solicitude,  Hermine  his 
right,  me  his  left,  and  con- 
ducted us  upstairs  to  a 
small  round  room  that  was 
lit  from  the  ceiling  with  a 
bluish  light  and  nearly 
empty.  .  .  . 


Why  then  was  Hermine  so 
white?  Why  was  Pablo  talk- 
ing so  much?  Was  it  not 
perhaps  I  who  made  him 
talk,  spoke,  indeed,  with  his 
voice?  Was  it  not  my  own 
soul  that  contemplated  me 
out  of  his  black  eyes 
like  a  lost  and  frightened 
bird?  .  .  . 


My  friends,  I  have  invited 
you  to  an  entertainment  that 
Harry  has  long  wished  for 
and  of  which  he  has  long 
dreamed.  The  hour  is  a 
little  late  and  we  are  all 
slightly  fatigued.  So,  first, 
we  will  rest  and  refresh  our- 
selves a  little. 


154  00   You  Have  to  Go  Out  of  Your  Mind 


From  a  recess  in  the  wall 
he  took  three  glasses  and 
a  quaint  little  bottle,  also  a 
small  oriental  box  inlaid 
with  differently  colored 
woods.  He  filled  the  three 
glasses  from  the  bottle  and, 
taking  three  long  thin  yel- 
low cigarettes  from  the  box 
and  a  box  of  matches  from 
the  pocket  of  his  silk 
jacket,  he  gave  us  a  light. 
And  now  we  all  slowly 
smoked  the  cigarettes 
whose  smoke  was  as  thick 
as  incense,  leaning  back  in 
our  chairs  and  slowly  sip- 
ping the  aromatic  liquid 
whose  strange  taste  was  so 
utterly  unfamiliar. 


Its  effect  was  immeasurably 
enlivening  and  delightful — 
as  though  one  were  filled 
with  gas  and  had  no  longer 
any  gravity.  Thus  we  sat 
peacefully  exhaling  small 
puffs  and  taking  little  sips 
at  our  glasses,  while  every 
moment  we  felt  ourselves 
growing  lighter  and  more 
serene. 


From  far  away  came  Pab- 
lo's warm  voice. 


It  is  a  pleasure  to  me,  dear 
Harry,  to  have  the  privilege 
of  being  your  host  in  a 
small  way  on  this  occa- 
sion. You  have  often  been 
sorely  weary  of  your  life. 
You  were  striving,  were 
you  not,  for  escape?  You 
have  a  longing  to  forsake 
this  world  and  its  reality 
and  to  penetrate  to  a  reality 
more  native  to  you,  to  a 
world  beyond  time.  You 
know,  of  course,  where  this 
other  world  lies  hidden. 


head  murmuring  his  name.  When  he  ignored  her, 
her  soft  eyes  moved  around  the  room  and  her  body 
twisted  in  search.  She  looked  at  me  and  smiled. 
Then  she  unfolded  and  swam  towards  me.  Her 
husband  was  standing  looking  out  the  window.  Her 
husband.  His  wife.  Now  she  was  all-woman  recep- 
tive earth;  tomorrow  she  would  be  reincarnated  as 
a  pretty  graduate  student.  I  retreated  behind  the 
couch. 

After  their  second  session  they  separated  and  she 
married  the  man  whose  image  she  brought  back 
from  her  psychedelic  trip. 

It  was  almost  inevitable  that  the  guide  of  the 
session  would  be  seen  as  God  and  lover.  When  the 
mind  is  suspended  you  project  on  the  calm  person 
who  has  turned  you  on,  all  the  attributes  of  divinity 
and  eternal  malehood. 

We  called  this  process  of  new  attraction-repul- 
sion re-imprinting.  The  persons  you  turned-on  fell 
in  love  with  you  or  never  wanted  to  see  you  again.  I 
have  never  met  Arthur  Koestler  since  his  trip.  Allen 
Ginsberg  has  been  my  soul  brother  since  his  trip. 

In  the  first  two  months  of  our  Harvard  psyche- 
delic research  seven  women  followed  me  home- 
much  as  the  baby  ducklings  followed  Conrad 
Lorenz— and  announced  their  love. 

For  many  reasons  I  was  not  ready  in  1961  to  face 
the  sexual  potentials  of  psychedelic  drugs. 

I  was  awed  and  confused  by  the  sexual  power.  It 
was  too  easy.  I  was  too  much  an  Irish  Catholic,  too 
prudish  to  deal  with  it.  Too  Western  Christian  to 
realize  that  God  and  Sex  are  one,  that  God  for  a 
man  is  woman,  that  the  direct  path  to  God  is 
through  the  divine  union  of  male-female. 

Besides,  I  was  still  involved  in  being  a  scientist. 
Too  weighted  by  the  duties  and  responsibilities  to 
enjoy  the  newly  opened  paradise.  I  was  too  much 
an  intellectual.  I  wanted  to  understand  before 
plunging  in.  I  felt  a  moral  obligation  to  Harvard 
University— a  good  place  on  this  dark  planet.  How 
could  I  enjoy  the  ultimate  sexual-sensual  experience 
in  my  study  and  square  it  with  my  scholarly  posi- 
tion? How  could  I  be  consumed  by  ecstasies  un- 
dreamed of  by  oriental  kings  and  return  to  my 
Harvard  Square  office  the  next  morning. 


January  1961  00    155 


It  was  there— this  tender  garden  of  divine  bliss— 
and  I  was  voyaging  towards  it,  but  while  I  held  my 
Harvard  position  I  held  to  a  self-imposed,  ridicu- 
lous renunciation.  I  didn't  turn-on  with  the  slim 
brown  model.  I  watched  the  Arab  girl  leave  with 
questioning  regret  in  her  black  eyes.  I  gave  mush- 
rooms to  the  honest,  soft  Joan,  which  she  used  to 
turn-on  one  of  her  suitors  whom  she  married.  I  let 
the  Cherokee  princess  drift  away  clothed  in  a 
leather  facade  that  yearned  to  be  moistened. 

My  sexual  yoga  was  to  start  in  1964,  after  I 
learned  to  come  to  my  senses  with  Holy  Marijuana, 
after  I  listened  to  and  learned  from  my  tantric  guru 
with  the  Siva  tiger  skin,  after  I  dropped  out  of 
Harvard  and  psychology,  resurrected  my  body,  and 
moved  on  the  journey  to  the  East. 

Beloved  Arthur,  forgive  my  clumsy  in-no-sense. 
Forgive  our  isolating  theater  set.  Make  your  next 
trip  up  the  mountain  with  Shakti  and  the  two  will 
be  won. 


It  is  the  world  of  your  own 
soul  that  you  seek.  Only 
within  yourself  exists  that 
other  reality  for  which  you 
long.  I  can  give  you  nothing 
that  has  not  already  its  be- 
ing within  yourself.  I  can 
throw  open  to  you  no  pic- 
ture gallery  but  your  own 
soul.  All  I  can  give  you  is 
the  opportunity,  the  im- 
pulse, the  key.  I  can  help 
you  to  make  your  own 
world  visible.  That  is  all. 


conflict.  You  are  sincere 
And  are  being  obstructed. 
A  cautious  halt  halfway  brings  good 

fortune. 
Going  through  to  the  end  brings 

misfortune. 
It  furthers  one  to  see  the  great  man. 
It  does  not  further  one  to  cross  the 

great  water. 

(IChing) 


00 


The  Random  Spinning  of  the  Mind 
Must  Be  Centered  by  Prayer: 


> 

W 
X 

w 
o 

CD 

w 


CD 


February  1961 

Guide:  richard  alpert  2 

Oracle:   XXV  § 

CD 

Innocence  ( The  Unexpected )  hh 


The  Creative,  Heaven 


The  Arousing,  Thunder 


Under  heaven  thunder  rolls: 

All  things  attain  the  natural  state  of  innocence, 

Thus  the  kings  of  old, 

Rich  in  virtue,  and  in  harmony  with  the  time, 

Fostered  and  nourished  all  beings. 

(IChing) 


TRIP  8 


DRUG  BLACK  MART 
BARED  AT  HARVARD 


LEARY  AND  ALPERT  EX- 
PLAIN RESEARCH  GOALS 


STATE  AGENTS  INVESTI- 
GATE HARVARD  DRUG 
RESEARCH 


PSYCHEDELIC  DRUGS 
NOT  DANGEROUS, 
CLAIMS  LEARY 


STATE  DRUG  AGENCY 
CLEARS  HARVARD  DRUG 
RESEARCH 


STATE  ALLOWS  DRUG 
STUDIES  AT  UNIVERSITY 


HARVARD  EATS  THE 
HOLY  MUSHROOM 


NEW  MIND  DRUG  CURES 
PRISONERS,  PSYCHOLO- 
GISTS CLAIM 


RELIGIOUS  VISIONS  PRO- 
DUCED BY  DANGEROUS 
BRAIN  DRUG 


PSYCHIATRIST  WARNS 
OF  PERMANENT 
INSANITY 


We  had  been  running  psychedelic  sessions— two 
and  three  a  week— sitting  for  eight  hours  while 
voyagers  went  out  of  their  minds,  holding  their 
hands,  murmuring  supportive  words  (prayers) 
while  they  wrestled  with  the  terror,  and  then 
watching  them  break  through  and  roam  free  out 
beyond  symbols.  Breaking  through!  Wow!  I've 
made  it!  I've  arrived!  So  this  is  what  it's  all  about! 
God!  God!  Yes,  I  understand!  What  a  fool  I've 
been!  It's  so  beautiful!  What  a  mess  we  make  of  it! 
Where  is  the  ice?  And  how  is  Lucifer  thus  fastened 
upside  down?  This  is  what  the  Bible  meant.  It's  all 
true.  Oh,  God!  Thank  God!  I  see  the  spirit  descend- 
ing from  heaven  like  a  dove!  It's  all  one!  We're  all  a 
part!  It  flows!  It's  all  love.  It's  all  a  game  back  there. 
Why  do  we  play  it  so  grimly?  How  funny! 

It  was  glorious  work,  this  guiding  trips,  but 
draining  and  disillusioning.  There  was  no  way  to 
predict  where,  in  the  million  rooms  of  the  ancient 
cerebral  museum,  the  tripper  would  go. 

Consciousness,  when  freed  from  the  mental 
chessgame,  is  completely  vulnerable,  completely 
reactive.  The  slightest  accidental  event  would  spin 
awareness  off  on  a  wild  careen.  Any  action  by  any 
person  in  the  session  would  dominate  the  direction. 
Some  method  of  centering,  gyroscoping  the  unpre- 
dictable rocket,  was  needed. 

The  mind  itself  is  such  a  limiting  structure.  The 
DNA  code  produces  fleshly  bodies  composed  of 
trillions  of  cells,  infiltrated  with  billions  of  sensory 
cameras,  integrated  by  a  nervous  system  whose 
capacity  for  reception  and  storage  of  images  is 
literally  infinite.  You  can  have  an  image  of  an 
image.  A  thought  about  a  thought. 

The  nervous  system  is  an  uncontrollable  galaxy 
of  mirrors  within  mirrors.  The  mind  is  a  neurolog- 
ical method  for  screening  out  all  but  a  few  redun- 
158 


February  1961   00    159 


dant,  static,  conditioned,  socially  consensual  ideas. 
The  mind  is  the  repetitious  narcotic,  addictive, 
redundant  neural  looping  designed  by  the  DNA 
code  to  limit  consciousness.  Like  heroin  focuses  the 
behavior  of  a  junkie,  so  does  the  mind  focus  the 
billion-fold  avalanche  of  neurological  activity. 

During  the  psychedelic  experience  the  heavy 
shackles  of  the  mind  are  loosened.  And  then  what? 
On  the  plus  side,  consciousness  is  free  to  move  in 
any  direction;  but  on  the  minus  side,  consciousness 
becomes  helplessly  vulnerable— can  be  swung  by 
the  slightest  pressure.  A  frown.  A  gesture.  A  word 
.  .  .  and  whoom!  you  are  catapulted  into  unex- 
pected orbit. 

This  being  a  guru  for  metaphysical  voyages  was 
turning  out  to  be  a  complex  and  demanding  task. 
It's  a  lot  easier  to  be  a  holy  man  if  your  sacrament 
doesn't  work.  You  just  keep  exhorting  and  threaten- 
ing and  promising  and,  of  course,  blaming  the 
failure  on  the  shortcomings  of  the  disciple. 

A  sacrament  which  does  work  presents  the  chal- 
lenge for  the  guide.  How  can  the  visions  be  chan- 
neled? How  can  low-level  paranoias  and  accidental 
orbits  be  avoided?  How  can  the  revelations  be 
made  to  endure? 


THE  STRUGGLE  FOR 
CONTROL  OF  MIND 
DRUGS— MEDICS  VS. 
RESEARCHERS 

00 


ALPERT  COMMUNITY 
"HOME"  DRAWS 
NEIGHBORS'  IRE 


HARVARD  DEAN  ATTACKS 
MIND  DRUGS 


HARVARD  PHYSICIAN 
ASKS  TIGHT  CURBS  ON 
HALLUCINOGENIC 
DRUGS 


LEARY  MOVES  RESEARCH 
FROM  HARVARD— STARTS 
INDEPENDENT  GROUP 


ALPERT-LEARY  PLAN  TO 
DEVOTE  ENTIRE  EFFORTS 
TO  DRUG  RESEARCH 


Oh  poet,  I  beseech  you  .  .  .  lead  me  where  you 
said  but  now  awhile,  so  that  I  may  behold  St. 
Peters  gate.  Then  he  moved  on:  I  followed  in  his 
steps.  .  .  .  ( Inferno  II ) 

The  ecstatic  trip  can  be  diverted  by  any  transient 
event.  The  satori  doesn't  seem  to  last.  There  is 
always  the  person's  mind  ready  to  explain  away 
paradise  and  pull  him  back  to  the  old  egocentric 
game. 

The  rigidity  of  the  normal  mind  was  so  different 
from  the  complete  openness  and  vulnerability  of 
the  psychedelic  situation. 

This  suggestibility,  which  had  obvious  implica- 
tions for  brainwashing,  conversion,  sudden  behav- 
ior change,  was  illustrated  in  Richard  Alpert's  first 
session. 

I  woke  late  that  morning.  Out  the  window,  gray 
skies   and   swirling   gusts   of  snow.   It  had   been 


HARVARD  FIRES  TWO 
IN  DRUG  ROW 


HARVARD  PROFESSORS 
DISMISSED  FOR  DRUG 
TESTS 


IFIF  GROUP  PLANS  CEN- 
TER FOR  RESEARCH 


LEARY-ALPERT  DEFEND 
METHODS 


STUDENTS  BACK  DRUG 
PROF-PAL  AT  HARVARD 


DRUG  EXPERIMENTERS 
TO  WORK  IN  MEXICO 


160  00    Random  Spinning 


CONTROVERSY  SPREADS 
OVER  USE  OF  LSD- 
PSYCHOLOGIST  VS. 
PSYCHIATRIST 


NEGRO  MEDIC  ISSUES 
DRUGS  AT  WAY-OUT 
BOSTON  CLINIC 


MOVE  WEIRD  DRUG 
TESTS  TO  MEXICO 


FIRED  DR.  LEARY  SETS 
UP  DRUG  CLINIC  IN 
MEXICO 


MEXICO  OUSTS  TWENTY 
IN  DRUG  RESEARCH 


MEXICO  EXPELS 
MEMBERS  OF  DRUG 
RESEARCH  GROUP 


A  LIVING  ROOM  WAS  THE 
LAB  FOR  HARVARD  TESTS 


HARVARD  BITES  THE 
MUSHROOM 


OUSTED  HARVARD 
RESEARCHERS  PLAN 
RETREAT  IN   MEXICO 


$220  A  MONTH  LSD 
PARADISE 


DAMAGE  TO  MIND  FROM 
LSD  FEARED 


A.M.A.  CITES  DANGERS 
OF  DRUG  RESEARCH 


TESTS  SHOW  LSD 
WAY-OUT 


AWESOME  NEW  DRUGS 
CAN  SET  BRAIN  AFIRE 


coming  down  all  night.  The  drifts  in  the  driveway 
were  two  feet  high  and  three  feet  by  the  garage 
door.  We  were  snowbound. 

After  dinner  Jack  ran  into  the  room,  smiling  and 
shouting.  Guess  who's  here!  I  could  hear  Sue  yip- 
ping  in  pleasure  and  when  I  got  to  the  hallway, 
there  was  Dick  Alpert  with  an  arctic  coat  and  fur 
gloves  and  boots  plastered  with  snow,  hugging  the 
kids  and  filling  the  house  with  good  feeling. 

We  all  trooped  into  the  kitchen  and  stood  him  on 
a  chair  and  Sue  broomed  off  his  trousers  and  Dick 
shouted,  No  sir,  Jack,  don't  use  the  toilet  brush.  We 
were  all  laughing.  Later  Dick  and  I  were  sitting  at 
the  kitchen  table  drinking  beer  and  talking  about 
the  sacred  mushrooms. 

Dick  was  fascinated  by  the  psychedelic  research 
and  eager  to  join.  The  first  step  for  him  was,  of 
course,  to  start  his  own  training.  Learn  how  to 
explore  the  rooms  of  his  own  consciousness.  When? 
Why  not  start  now.  Now?  Are  you  ready? 

When  I  got  up  from  my  chair,  he  said,  Oh,  you 
really  mean  right  now,  and  I  said,  Whenever  you 
take  them  it's  right  now.  I  came  down  with  the 
bottle  and  counted  out  six  and  poured  them  in 
Dick's  hand  and  said,  Chew  them,  and  without 
pausing  in  the  story  he  was  telling,  Dick  popped 
them  in  his  mouth.  They  taste  great.  Then  he  went 
on  with  the  story.  I  took  six,  and  a  few  minutes 
later  Charlie  came  in  grinning  expectantly  and  re- 
fused politely  twice  before  taking  his  six. 
They  hit  me 

first  and 

fast. 
The  eerie  physical  chill 
Room  beginning  to  glow 
Talk  becoming  underwater 
Gurgling. 

About  fifteen  minutes  later  Dick  started  to  look 
silly  and  happy  and  Charlie's  big  pink  cheeks  began 
to  radiate,  and  the  gray  green  under  his  eyes,  and 
we  were  all  roaring  with  laughter,  high,  happy, 
drunken  eagles.  The  kids  burst  into  the  kitchen  in 
great  spirits  and  the  kitchen  was  exploding  with 
love  and  family  noise  and  chuckles,  and  Jack  began 
to  tell  one  of  his  endless  stories.  Sue  was  curled  up 


February  1961   00    161 


in  a  kitchen  chair  reading  a  book  about  What  To  Do 
on  Dates  with  Boys,  with  her  hands  in  her  ears 
pretending  to  be  annoyed  by  the  clatter.  Rhona  left 
with  Charlie.  Dick  and  I  were  roaring  away.  Jack 
left  and  then  Sue  left,  and  her  friend  Judy  fol- 
lowed her,  and  Dick  suddenly  stopped  laughing 
and  the  room  was  suddenly  silent.  Hey!  Where  did 
everyone  go?  Why  did  they  leave?  around  the 

NORTH  POLE  LIES  A  VAST  EXPANSE  OF  ICE  AND  SNOW 

Did  I  say  something  wrong?  Are  they  angry?  for 

WEEKS  THERE  IS  NO  SUN.  THE  TEMPERATURE  IS  FAR 

relow  zero.  Dick  and  I  were  deserted  and  fright- 
ened. Condemning  silence.  ...  A  cold  wind  swept 
across  the  kitchen,  white  explorers  have  rarely 

REEN  ARLE   TO   WITHSTAND   THE   FIERCE,    RAW   RLEAK- 

ness  of  the  arctic.  Charlie's  coming  back,  though. 
Look,  he  left  his  cigarettes.  But  why  has  he  taken  so 
long?  He's  been  gone  for  hours.  I  looked  up  at  the 
clock  hands  which  had  moved  five  minutes  in  the 
last  eight  hours.  Psychedelic  time.  He's  gone  from 
present  time  so  he's  been  gone  for  centuries. 

The  door  opened  and  we  both  looked  up  hope- 
fully. Charlie!  Surge  of  relief.  Where  the  hell  have 
you  been?  I  went  upstairs  to  take  a  leak.  But  why 
did  you  take  so  long?  Long?  I  was  gone  for  two 
minutes.  Psychedelic  time. 

Jack  was  back  with  Champ  the  dog.  Champ  had 
been  a  nuisance  all  night.  Romping  with  the  cat. 
Barking  when  Jack  teased  him.  Knocking  over  the 
cat's  milk  bowl.  Too  much  big,  brown,  romping 
animal  in  crowded  kitchen.  Twice  Rhona  had  put 
him  down  in  the  cellar,  and  twice  Jack  had  indig- 
nantly brought  him  back.  Charlie  was  mad  at 
Champ  for  leaving  a  turd  on  the  guest-room  rug. 
When  Jack  went  upstairs,  I  put  Champ  outside. 
Dogs  love  the  snow. 

Dick  and  I  went  back  to  mushroom  talk.  Enter 
Jack,  accusing.  Where's  Champ  now?  We  put  him 
outside  to  run  in  the  snow.  Jack  went  out  the 
hallway  scolding  us.  The  snow  must  have  looked 
good  to  him.  He  announced  that  he  was  going  to  go 
out  and  run  in  the  drifts  with  Champ.  He  went  to 
get  dressed  and  then  was  back  with  us,  booted  and 
gloved  and  his  hood  over  his  face,  beaming  with 
pleasure.   I  watched  my  son  running  highlegged 


CONTROVERSIAL  EC- 
STASY DRUGS— MIRACLE 
OR  KEY  TO  HELL? 


HARVARD  DRUG  RE- 
SEARCHERS DEPORTED 
FROM  MEXICO 


LSD  PARADISE  LOST 


DRUG   RESEARCH  AND 
RELIGION 


SEEDY  VISION— MORN- 
ING-GLORY BOOM  BEING 
PROBED  BY  FDA 


SUDDEN   RUSH  ON 
MORNING-GLORY  SEEDS 
SPARKS  DRUG  PROBE 


STUDENTS  ARE  WARNED 
AGAINST  DRUGS 


DREAM  DRUGS  AREN'T 
SWEET 


MENTAL  ILLNESS  DRUG 
STALEMATE  SEEN 


TWO  MD'S  URGE  CURB 
ON  SALE  OF  UNITY  DRUG 


DISCUSSION  OF  LSD'S 
ROLE  IN  RELIGION 


LSD  ADVOCATES  RENT 
MANSION   IN   MILLBROOK 


NEW  DRUG  FAD 


DRUG  RESEARCHERS 
TURN  TO  MYSTICISM 


DRUG  CULT  LIVES  QUIET 
LIFE  ON  ESTATE 


162  00    Random  Spinning 


LEARY  PREDICTS  LSD 
TO  UNLEASH  BRAIN 


DRUG  TAKING  ADVO- 
CATED AS  THOUGHT 
STIMULUS 


LSD  DOCTORS  SHOW 
NON-DRUG  TECHNIQUES 


LEARY  DISCUSSES  NON- 
DRUG  SESSIONS  TO 
EXPAND  MIND 


SECT  MEMBERS  BUNCH 
OF  WEIRDOS— BUT  THE 
CULTISTS  SAY  LOSE 
YOUR  MIND  TO  USE 
YOUR  HEAD 


LSD  BLACK  MARKET 
GROWS 


LSD  SIMULATION  SES- 
SIONS LURES  16  TO 
ECSTATIC  EXPERIENCE 


DRUG  CRAZE  GROWS 
ON  CAMPUS 


FOUNDATION  STUDIES 
POTENT  KICK  DRUGS 


NAB  FIRED  PROF  ON 
DOPE  RAP 


EXPERT  SAYS  LSD  IS 
BIG  FAD  IN  CITY 


NARCOTIC  LSD  NOW 
TERMED  MOST  DANGER- 
OUS 


PROF  BACKS  POT- 
CALLS  IT  HARMLESS 


AMERICAN  CONVICTED 
ON  DOPE  CHARGES 


through  the  deep  drifts,  with  Champ  floundering 
behind  him,  barking  and  tail  wagging.  Heartbreak- 
ing great  scene.  Boy,  dog,  snow,  satori. 

We  were  back  on  the  Buddhist-humor  jag.  I  was 
telling  Dick  the  history  of  the  mushroom  research 
and  the  people  wanting  to  get  high  for  science,  or 
to  do  science  in  order  to  get  high,  and  I  men- 
tioned the  name  Jack  and  right  then  the  door 
opened  and  there  was  Jack,  thumping  off  snow, 
ready  to  enter  stage  left,  and  I  helped  him  get  off 
his  coat  and  gloves  and  I  zipped  down  one  of  his 
boots  and  found  it  stuffed  with  snow  and  I  zipped 
it  right  back  up  again  and  said,  Take  this  snow 
back  to  the  fellow  what  made  it,  we  don't  want  it 
here,  and  everyone  laughed  and  Jack  said,  Come  on 
Dad,  and  Jack  started  telling  his  snow  saga,  how 
the  drifts  were  higher  than  Champ  and  how 
Champ  would  disappear  in  the  snow  and  how  hard 
it  was  for  poor  Champ  to  jump  from  one  hole  to  the 
next  drift. 

Champ  had  Jack's  sock  in  his  mouth  and  when 
Jack  pulled  it  out  there  was  blood  on  the  sock.  We 
were  alarmed  but  Jack  calmed  us  down.  Oh,  that's 
nothing,  I  bleed  all  the  time.  When  we  heard  this 
we  began  to  laugh.  Jack  was  pleased  by  the 
laughter  but  embarrassed.  He  shouted,  Here 
Champie,  Champie,  come  on  Champie,  and  ran 
into  the  living  room  and  when  I  came  to  ask  him, 
Where  do  you  bleed  all  the  time,  he  was  running 
round  and  round  the  long  sofa  chasing  Champ. 

When  we  all  got  back  to  the  kitchen  I  sat  down. 
From  behind  the  chair  there  came  a  fast  panting 
series  of  whooshing  sounds.  What's  that  queer 
noise?  Jack  shrugged.  Just  Champ  breathing  hard. 
He's  tired.  Exit  Jack  to  watch  TV  with  girls.  Back  to 
the  mushroom  tales.  We  were  building  up  to  un- 
bearable good  humor,  putting  our  heads  on  the 
table  to  control  the  bodyshaking  chuckles. 

Then  I  found  myself  looking  at  the  dog.  Champ 
was  lying  by  the  sink.  His  face  was  drawn  back 
tight  and  strained,  teeth  gleaming,  horrible  crazy 
grin,  and  his  body  was  shaking  in  fast,  frantic 
breathing.  Horrid  wolf  leer.  Eyes  bulging.  God, 
that  dog  is  sick,  look  at  him.  Laughter  stops.  Wow, 
you're  right.  Look  at  him  breathe.  He's  having  a 
fit. 


February  1961  00    163 


We  were  all  leaning  forward.  Looks  like  the  first 
stage  of  distemper  to  me.  Champ  lay  on  his  side, 
ribs  heaving,  eyes  glaring,  lips  pulled  back.  Maybe 
it's  rabies,  said  Dick.  Don't  they  froth  and  spit 
blood.  Blood,  yes,  there  was  blood  on  the  sock. 
Champ  stretched  his  legs  out  stiff.  Look,  it's  a 
convulsion. 

Charlie's  calm  voice.  You're  crazy.  The  dog's  all 
right.    He's   just   exhausted   from   running   in   the 


snow. 


Oh,  yeah?  Fatigue  doesn't  give  a  dog  the  fits. 
And  he's  been  breathing  heavy  for  ten  minutes.  I 
remember  asking  about  that  noise  when  he  and 
Jack  came  back  in.  Has  he  had  rabies  shots?  That's 
fatal  to  a  human  being  if  he  bites  you. 

Charlie's  voice.  For  God's  sake,  let's  drop  the  dog 
issue  and  enjoy  ourselves.  He's  had  shots.  He's  not 
sick.  He's  just  trying  to  rest  and  catch  his  breath. 

I  moved  over  near  the  dog.  Here,  Champ,  come 
on  boy.  Champ  wagged  his  tail  weakly  and  got  up. 
He  walked  slowly  across  the  kitchen  while  we 
watched  him  in  horror.  His  flanks  were  heaving 
with  tortured  gasps  and  when  he  got  to  the  butler's 
pantry,  to  the  far  dark  corner,  he  fell  heavily  and 
closed  his  eyes,  the  symptoms  are  initial  fever 

WITH  ITS  ACCOMPANIMENTS,  THIRST,  LOSS  OF  APPE- 
TITE, HURRIED  PULSE  AND  RESPIRATION. 

Boy,  that  animal  is  really  sick,  emaciation,  lan- 
guor, disinclination  to  move.  Go  look  and  see 
if  he  is  alive.  Dick  tiptoed  to  the  pantry  and  poked 
his  head  around  the  door.  He's  still  breathing  hard. 

SOMETIMES  THE  LEGS  ARE  SWOLLEN  AND  THE  ANIMAL 
IS  STIFF. 

Charlie  was  laughing.  You  guys  slay  me.  You're 
the  end.  Look  what  the  drug  does  to  you.  You  go 
around  and  make  a  big  production  of  everything. 

THERE  IS  GREAT  DISINCLINATION  TO  MOVE:  THE  HODY 
SWAYS   ON  THE  ANIMAL  ATTEMPTING  TO  WALK.   You 

worry  when  I  go  up  to  pee  and  now  about  the  dog. 
Let's  not  ruin  the  fun.  The  dog  is  fine.  I've  raised 
dogs  for  years.  I  know  when  a  dog  is  sick  and  when 
a  dog  is  tired. 

Dick  tiptoed  again  to  the  pantry  and  peeped 
around  the  corner.  Boy,  look  at  him.  If  he  isn't  a 
sick,  sick  dog  then  I've  never  seen  one.  there  is 

NEARLY    ALWAYS    A    DEEP,    PAINFUL,    AND    HARASSING 


DR.  LEARY  DRAWS  30- 
YEAR  SENTENCE  IN 
MARIJUANA  CASE 


EX-PROF  TO  APPEAL 
VERDICT 


LSD-TOTING  PROF  SEN- 
TENCED TO  30  YEARS 


CONVICTED  USER  OF 
MARIJUANA  TO  APPEAL 
ON  RELIGIOUS  BASIS 


FIGHT  TO  LEGALIZE  THE 
SUGAR-CUBE  DRUG 


GIRL,  5,  TAKES  LSD  CUBE 
BY  MISTAKE 


GIRL  LSD  DRUG  VICTIM 
IN  GOOD  CONDITION 


FIRM  HALTS  DISTRIBU- 
TION OF  LSD 


A  MONSTER  IN  OUR 
MIDST— DRUG  CALLED 
LSD 


LSD  HORROR— NEWS 
MEDIA  CURB  ON  LSD 
ASKED  BY  SENATOR 


ALARMED  NARCOTICS 
AGENCY  TO  CHART  WAR 
AGAINST  LSD 


LSD  MOVIE  FILMED  IN 
SPAIN 


LSD  PARLEY  CALLED 
HERE  TO  STEM 
INCREASE  IN  USE 


SENATOR  WANTS  BAN 
ON  LSD  DRUG 


164  00    Random  Spinning 


A.M.A.  CHIEF  URGES  LSD 
CONTROLS 


PRAISE  OF  LSD  BLAMED 
FOR  USE 


COLLEGE  STUDENTS  SAID 
USING  HALLUCINOGENIC 
DRUGS 


CRACKDOWN   URGED  ON 
CAMPUS  DRUG  PARTIES 


DR.   LEARY'S  DEFENSE  A 
SWINGING  BEGINNING 


ECSTASY  DRUG  GIVES 
NEW  INSIGHT  TO  REALITY 


LSD:  HOLLYWOOD'S 
STATUS-SYMBOL  DRUG 


MIDNIGHT  RAID  ON 
LEARY'S  MANSION 


THE  LSD  CULT 


LSD— REVOLUTION   IN 
SENSATION 


LEARY  CASE  IN  HANDS 
OF  JURY 


MILLBROOK  DOCTOR 
POSTS  $2500  BOND 


LSD  HORRORS  PICTURED 
BY  PSYCHIATRIST 


CALIFORNIA  BILL  OUT- 
LAWS LSD 


LSD  HALLUCINATION: 
BLASTOFF  TO  TERROR 


cough.  I  walked  over  to  look.  Champ  was  lying  in  a 
gray,  ragged  heap.  His  head  rested  on  the  floor.  His 
jowls  hung  down,  the  membrane  lining  the  eyes 
assumes  a  dull  leaden  hue.  His  eyes  gleamed  in 
helpless,  begging  misery.  His  sides  heaved.  You're 
right.  I've  never  seen  anything  so  sick,  but  the 

CHARACTERISTIC  SYMPTOMS  ARE  A  GRAYISH  YELLOW 
DISCHARGE  FROM  ONE  OR  BOTH  NOSTRILS. 

Dick  was  looking  intently  into  the  pantry.  God, 
look!  There's  mucus  dripping  from  his  nose. 
Mucus?  Oh,  he's  dying.  Mucus?  Well,  maybe  it's 
just  the  breath  from  his  nose,  the  discharge  from 

THE  NOSE  ADHERES  TO  THE  NOSTRILS  AND  UPPER  LIP. 

Charlie  hooted  again.  Sure  it's  breath  from  his  nose. 
It's  air.  Don't  you  want  the  poor  tired  dog  to 
breathe.  You  guys  are  too  much,  and  the  infil- 
trated NASAL  LINING,  IMPEDING  BREATHING,  CAUSES 
SNIFFLING    AND    FREQUENT    SNORTING.    Dick    becomes 

the  executive.  Look.  This  is  serious.  The  dog  may 
be  dying  and  we're  all  drugged  to  the  ears  and 
we're  snowbound  and  can't  get  a  car  out.  It's  one 
o'clock  and  that's  late  to  call  a  vet  and  the  vet 
couldn't  get  here   through  the   snow  anyway,   in 

UNFAVORABLE   CASES   THE   FEVER   INCREASES,   AS  WELL 

as  the  prostration.  We've  got  to  pull  ourselves 
together,  this  is  serious.  He  was  right.  I  was  think- 
ing the  same  thing  myself.  I  burst  into  uncontrol- 
lable laughter,  the  breathing  becomes  labored. 

AUSCULTATION    AND    PERCUSSION    INDICATE    THAT    THE 

lungs  are  seriously  involved.  I  tried  to  talk  about 
how  serious  it  was  but  I  was  laughing  so  hard  that 
the  words  wouldn't  come  out.  The  rest  of  them 
were  howling  in  laughter,  too.  clots  sometimes 

FORM  IN  THE  PLEURA  OR  HEART.   It's   Serious,  you're 

right,  he's  terribly  sick.  Compulsive  chuckles. 

I  walked  into  the  pantry.  Champ  was  a  limp, 
boneless  mass  on  the  floor.  His  bright,  gleaming 
brown  coat  had  changed  to  a  gray-black  drab.  He 
seemed  to  have  shriveled.  His  fur  was  moist  and 

pulpy.     THE     SUFFERING     ANIMAL     ALWAYS     APPEARS 

exactly  as  it  is  and  feels.  I  put  my  hand  on  his 
tortured  head  and  the  eyes  opened  and  the  tail 
wagged  feebly.  Oh  God,  he's  begging  for  help  and 
we're  helpless,  without  the  intervention  of  mind 

OBSCURING  THE  SYMPTOMOLOGY. 


166  00    Random  Spinning 


FATHER  CHARGES  TRAF- 
FIC  IN  LSD  AT  HIGH 
SCHOOL 


IS  DRINKING  SQUARE 
IN  THE  YOUNG  SET? 


LSD— SHINING  PROMISE 
—BROKEN  GOAL 


200  FEDERAL  AGENTS 
TRAINED  TO  CRUSH 
LSD  USE 


U.N.  DEMANDS  LSD  CURB 


MANY  STUDENTS  USE 
LSD  LIKE  BEER,  SURVEY 
REVEALS 


WORLD  CURBS  ON   LSD 
URGED 


TEEN-AGER  REVEALS 
LSD  LAUNCH  PAD 


D.A.  DROPS  NARCOTICS 
CHARGES  ON  LEARY 


LSD  PROF  BEATS  DOPE 
RAP 


CONSTITUTION  PRO- 
TECTS LSD  CULT  LEADER 


LSD— AVANT-GARDE 
CULT  OR  REVERSION  TO 
SAVAGERY? 


DR.  LEARY  ASKS:  WHAT 
AM  I  BEING  CHARGED 
WITH?  GETS  NO  ANSWER 


LSD— NATION'S  GROW- 
ING TERROR 


At  the  table  Dick  was  pronouncing  diagnosis.  It's 
my  opinion  that  we  have  a  sick,  sick  dog  on  our 
hands.  ( That  animal  is  so  weak  he  doesn't  have  the 
power  to  lift  himself  to  his  feet. )  animal  symptoms 

BEING   REALLY   AND  TRULY  THE  RIGOROUS  EXPRESSION 

of  its  diseased  condition.  Well,  what  shall  we  do? 
Puff,  puff  on  pipe.  I  think  we  should  wait  and  let 
nature  take  its  course.  He  may  pull  out  of  it  on  his 
own.  Dick  looked  very  wise.  I  noticed  Charlie 
stealing  glances  into  the  pantry.  He  was  beginning 
to  look  worried.  Sure.  I  know  dogs.  They  get  sick 
and  crawl  off  to  rest  and  don't  want  to  be  bothered 
and  they  sleep  it  off.  He  just  doesn't  want  to  be 
bothered.  We  can't  do  anything  anyway,  the  con- 
tagious DISEASES  OF  THE  DOG  ARE  FEW,  BUT  THE  ONE 
WHICH  ATTRACTS  THE  MOST  ATTENTION  IS  COMMON 
AND  GENERALLY  SERIOUS.  THIS  IS  WHAT  IS  POPULARLY 
KNOWN  AS  DISTEMPER. 

Someone  had  closed  the  pantry  door  but  we 
couldn't  close  out  the  thought  of  the  animal  dying 
in  the  next  room  while  we  argued  helplessly  and 
giggled.  I  walked  over  to  the  door  and  pushed  into 
the  pantry,  debility  rapidly  ensues  and  emacia- 
tion is  soon  apparent.  I  was  sure  that  the  brown 
body  would  be  lying  there  stiff  and  cold.  No,  the 
bedraggled  rag  was  pulsing  softly.  He  was  alive, 
but  just  by  a  breath.  His  eyes  were  blank  and 
glassy. 

I  came  back  to  the  kitchen  and  stood  with  my 
hand  on  the  refrigerator.  Well,  what  do  you  think? 
I  frowned  and  spoke  slowly,  clipping  my  words. 
convulsions  generally  come  on.  The  dog  is  sick, 
terribly  sick  and  he'll  be  dead  by  morning.  And  I 
don't  see  one  thing  we  can  do  about  it— drugs  or  no 
drugs,  snow  or  no  snow.  A  long  silence  followed,  in 

FATAL  CASES  THE  ANIMAL  DIES  IN  A  STATE  OF 
MARASMUS.  AS  DOES  THE  AILING  INFANT  OR  THE  COM- 
ATOSE ADULT. 

I  got  up.  We  need  to  call  in  a  consultant.  Let  me 
go  up  and  sound  Jack  out.  Maybe  he  noticed 
something.  Upstairs  Sue  and  her  friend  and  Jack 
were  in  pajamas  in  the  TV  room  watching  a  twenty- 
year-old  parlor  comedy.  Edward  G.  Robinson  was  a 
young-looking  millionaire-host  at  a  houseparty.  I 
lay  down  next  to  Jack.  His  eyes  were  glued  to  the 


February  1961   00    167 


screen.  When  the  commercial  break  came  I  started 
asking  casual  questions.  No,  he  hadn't  noticed  any- 
thing wrong  with  Champ.  Well,  yes  he  had  been 
breathing  heavily.  Were  you  worried  about  him? 
No.  Are  you  worried  now?  No,  well,  a  little  if  you're 
worried.  Jack  was  watching  the  commercial  and  not 
very  interested  in  talking.  At  the  door  I  stopped. 
After  the  show  is  over,  you  guys  come  down  to  the 
kitchen.  Sue  nodded  yes  and  blew  a  kiss  to  me,  her 
eves  still  on  the  TV. 

Downstairs  Dick  had  the  yellow  section  of  the 
phone  book  in  his  hand,  the  rare  instances  in 

WHICH    ANIMALS    CAN    RE    SEEN    RY    THE    VETERINARY 

surgeon.  He  was  cross-examining  Charlie.  Logi- 
cally I  know  that  Champ  is  all  right.  Maybe  ex- 
hausted, but  logically  I'm  convinced  he's  okay.  Dick 
sighed  in  relief  and  reached  behind  to  put  the 
telephone  book  on  the  stove.  But,  emotionally,  you 
guys  have  got  me  convinced  that  he's  sick,  in  the 

EARLIEST  STAGES  OF  THE  DISEASE,  AND  WHEN  THIS 
WOULD  PROVE  MOST  AMENABLE  TO  MEDICAL  TREAT- 
MENT. Dick's  eyebrows  raised  and  he  sighed  in  pain 
and  reached  for  the  phone  book. 

Well,  let's  get  our  boots  on  and  carry  him  down 
to  the  avenue  and  get  a  taxi,  delay  usually  due  to 

THE  INABILITY  OF  THOSE  WHO  HAVE  CARE  OF  THE 
ANIMAL   TO   PERCEIVE    THESE   EARLY   STAGES.    What    a 

scene.  Imagine  it.  Going  to  the  vet's  house.  Waking 
him  up.  Three  mushroomed  escorts  and  the  breath- 
ing dog.  Well,  we  can  give  the  vet  some  mush- 
rooms. THE  FACT  THAT  ANIMALS  CANNOT,  EXCEPT  IN 
A  NEGATIVE  MANNER,  TELL  THEIR  WOES,  DESCRIBE 
THEIR  SENSATIONS,  OR  INDICATE  WHAT  AND  WHERE 
THEY  SUFFER. 

We'll  wait  until  the  kids  come  down  and  let  them 
look  at  him  and  then  we'll  call  the  taxi.  Charlie 
made  some  tea  and  we  joked  around,  laughing,  but 
not  as  hard  as  before.  Then  feet  drumming  on  the 
back  stairs.  Enter  the  kids,  the  violence  or  stupor, 

AS  WELL  AS  THE  ATTITUDE  AND  STRUCTURAL  PECU- 
LIARITIES OF  THE  SICK  CREATURE,  WHICH  ONLY  TOO 
FREQUENTLY  RENDER  FAVORABLE  POSITIONS  FOR  RE- 
COVERY impossible.  Sue  and  her  friend,  dressed  in 
white  and  blue,  clown  pajamas,  teen-age  dream 
girls  and  Jack  in  red  pajamas,  and  his  black  hair 


JURY  INDICTS  LEARY, 
OTHERS  IN   MILLBROOK 
DRUG  CASE 


LEARY  ASKS  HARVARD 
TO  GIVE  HIM  BACK  JOB 


RAIDERS  NAB  LSD  PROF 
IN  MANSION 


RAID  MANSION— SEIZE 
LSD  PROF 


LSD  PSYCHOLOGIST 
ARRESTED  AGAIN 


DR.  LEARY  STARTS  NEW 
"RELIGION"  WITH  SAC- 
RAMENTAL USE  OF  LSD 


DR.  LEARY  HOLDS  FIRST 
SERVICE  OF  SECT 


TIMOTHY  LEARY— 
PSYCHO  OR  SAVIOR? 


DR.  LEARY  ARRESTED 
AT  LAGUARDIA  ON 
NARCOTICS  CHARGE 


THIRD  ARREST  FOR  LSD 
CULTIST 


LEARY  ASKS  SUPREME 
COURT  TO  LEGALIZE 
PSYCHEDELIC  "SACRA- 
MENT" 


BAPTIST  MINISTERS 
LABEL  DRUG  RELIGION 
HERESY 


JOHN  BIRCH  SPOKES- 
MAN BLAMES  LSD 
ON  JEWS 


HIGH  COURT  VOIDS 
LEARY  DRUG  SENTENCE 
ON  RELIGIOUS  GROUNDS 


168  00    Random  Spinning 


AMERICAN   LEGION 
DENOUNCES  COURT 
DECISION  ON  MARIJUANA 


FBI  HEAD  WARNS  OF 
DRUG  CHAOS 


PSYCHEDELIC  CHURCH 
APPLIES  FOR  LICENSE 
TO  IMPORT  MARIJUANA 
&  LSD 


TREASURY  OFFICES 
FLOODED  WITH  PSYCHE- 
DELIC DRUG   IMPORT 
REQUESTS 


FDA  HEAD  WARNS  OF 
NATIONAL  DRUG  CRISIS 


STUDENT-PROF  GROUPS 
DEMAND  DRUG  TRAINING 
COURSES  AT  STATE  UN IV 


COURTS  OK'S  LSD 
CHURCH  DRUG   IMPORT 
LICENSE 


LEARY  GROUP  PLANTS 
"POT"   IN   RELIGIOUS 
SHRINE 


20,000  MARIJUANA 
USERS  RELEASED  FROM 
JAILS  BY  COURT  RULING 


SUPREME  COURT  OK'S 
USE  OF  LSD,  MARIJUANA 


FDA  EXPERIMENTS  SHOW 
MARIJUANA  LESS 
DANGEROUS  THAN 
ALCOHOL,  NICOTINE 


RACE  TO  MARKET  MARI- 
JUANA BY  ALCOHOL 
AND  TOBACCO  INDUS- 
TRIES 


LSD  CHURCH  SENDS 
MILLION   DOSES  TO 
SAIGON,  HANOI 


tousled.  Have  some  hot  chocolate,  girls.  Jack, 
perched  on  the  kitchen  stool,  in  high  spirits  telling 
us  about  the  TV  show.  The  girls  moved  around  the 
kitchen  opening  the  cocoa  tin  and  the  milk  and 
stirring  the  milk  on  the  stove,  the  slender  means 

FOR  CARRYING  OUT  RECOMMENDATION,  TOGETHER 
WITH     THE     OFTENTIMES     INTRACTARLE     NATURE     OF 

thedr  diseases.  The  rest  of  us  sat  there  enjoying 
their  fun  and  feeling  lousy  about  the  horror  in  the 
pantry.  I  was  thinking  for  sure  that  Champ  was 
dead  now  and  Dick  said  later  that  he  was  feeling 
the  same  thing,  as  well  as  the  utilitarian  influ- 
ences ALLUDED  TO  AROVE— ALL  THESE  CONSIDERA- 
TIONS, IN  THE  GREAT  MAJORITY  OF  INSTANCES,  MILI- 
TATE AGAINST. 

Noise  from  the  pantry.  Death  convulsions. 
Champ  struggling  to  his  feet  and  walking  slowly 
into  the  kitchen.  Hardly  enough  strength  to  move. 

THE  ADOPTION  OF  CURATIVE  TREATMENT  OR  AT  LEAST 
GREATLY  INCREASE  ITS  DIFFICULTIES.  He's  COming  OUt 

to  die  at  the  feet  of  the  children.  Jack  looked  down 
and  saw  Champ  approaching.  Champie!  Come  on 
old  fellow.  Good  dog.  Champ  broke  into  a  run,  and 
his  tail  was  wagging  a  mile  a  minute  and  he  was 
wiggling  in  delight  the  way  puppies  and  happy 
young  dogs  do  and  he  jumped  up,  two  paws 
against  Jack,  and  Jack  was  rumpling  his  ears  and 
Champ's  tail  was  waggling  so  hard  that  when  it 
bumped  against  my  leg  it  kind  of  hurt  and  Susan 
shouted,  Here,  Champ,  here,  and  the  dog  bounded 
across  the  room  to  her,  squirming  and  wiggling, 
and  I  was  staring  with  my  mouth  open  and  I 
looked  over  and  saw  the  expression  on  Dick's  face, 
stunned,  and  Charlie  at  the  end  of  the  table  was 
grinning  away  in  a  disgusting  smug  manner  and  I 
began  to  laugh  and  Dick  was  laughing,  all  of  us 
howling  like  idiots,  and  the  kids  looked  up  sur- 
prised and  Susan  began  to  frown  her  after-all- 
Daddy  frown  and  I  started  to  explain  to  the  kids. 
Susan  and  Jack  started  laughing  and  by  this  time 
Champ  was  lying  on  the  floor  with  a  big  bone 
grasped  between  his  paws  and  was  crunching  and 
grinding  away  on  it,  his  tail  still  wagging  at  all  the 
noise  and  laughter. 

So  we  were  back  on  the  cloud  again  and  we 
rolled  along  for  another  three  hours.  I  told  Dick 


February  1961   00    169 


more  about  our  early  adventures  as  scientists  track- 
ing down  the  sacred  mushrooms  and  we  reviewed 
the  great  moments  from  past  mushroom  scenes  and 
we  were  funny  and  wise  to  our  hearts'  content.  At 
four  o'clock  Dick  got  his  boots  on  and  then  stood 
for  another  hour  rapping  and  laughing  and  we 
went  to  the  front  door  and  looked  out  down  the 
long  rolling  front  lawn  all  clean  and  glistening,  and 
down  at  the  trees  hung  heavy  with  white  like  a 
Christmas  card  etching,  and  Dick  shook  hands  all 
around,  grinning,  and  gave  a  shout  and  a  big  jump 
and  started  bounding  down  the  snow  slope  and  we 
stood  watching  him.  When  he  reached  the  road 
below  he  waved  up  and  we  waved  back. 

Lying  in  bed,  I  tried  to  figure  out  what  we  had 
learned  that  night.  First  the  value  of  ritual.  I  was 
beginning  to  see  that  there  are  many  ways  that 
sacred  mushrooms  can  be  used.  Your  ritual  decides. 
The  basic  man-woman  love  scene.  And  then  the 
tribal  fiesta  scene.  Like  the  one  we  had  those  nights 
in  Allen  Ginsberg's  pad  with  Kerouac.  Or  the  great 
tribal  love  feast  with  the  Dionysius  from  Glouces- 
ter. And  then  there's  the  deep  visionary  heavy-dose 
experience  in  which  you  don't  want  other  people 
around  at  all  except  for  the  wise  loving  curandero 
to  guide  you  back  when  you  want  to  return. 

And  a  second  lesson.  The  size  and  shape  of  the 
room  makes  a  difference.  If  we  had  been  sitting  in  a 
line  along  the  couch  or  scattered  around  the  big 
living  room,  it  wouldn't  have  swung  so  well.  The 
idea  of  being  enclosed  together  like  in  a  sub- 
marine or  in  a  spaceship  or  in  the  snowbound 
kitchen,  pushed  up  close  and  facing  each  other 
around  the  table,  closeness,  intimacy,  fighting  the 
pull  of  the  expanding  disintegrating  universe. 
When  Beckett  puts  his  characters  on  lovely  wide 
beaches  or  deserted  flat  landscapes,  he  knows  what 
he's  doing.  The  separation  and  distance  between 
his  characters  are  heightened  by  the  empty  vistas. 
If  you  cram  people  together  into  smaller  spaces,  like 
molecules  of  gas,  more  heat  generates  in  tighter 
quarters. 

And  a  third  lesson.  For  group  rites  you  need  a 
love  leader.  A  guru.  A  guide.  A  spiritually  hip 
person  whose  love  and  energy  and  output  batteries 
are  charged  up,  so  that  his  voice  and  his  wit  and  his 


LSD  PANIC   IN  VIETNAM 


GOP  SPOKESMAN 
ACCUSES  KENNEDY 
OF  USING  LSD 


KY  AND  HO  JOIN  TO 
DENOUNCE  LSD 
INFILTRATION 


TROOPS  IN   HANOI, 
SAIGON  THROW  DOWN 
GUNS 


LSD  CHAOS  IN  VIETNAM 
—FIGHTING  STOPS 


LBJ  AND  MAO  MEET  TO 
PLAN  ANTI-LSD 
CAMPAIGN 


LSD  IN  PENTAGON 
WATER  COOLERS:  MASS 
RELIGIOUS  CONVERSIONS 


KOSYGIN,  RED  BOSS, 
QUITS  JOB  TO  BECOME 
MONK:  LSD  PSYCHOSIS 
BLAMED 


LSD  TO  BE  MAJOR 
CAMPAIGN   ISSUE 


RFK  DEFENDS  LSD; 
HUMPHREY  DEMANDS 
PSYCHIATRIC 
EXAMINATION 


CITY  COUNCIL  BANS 
AUTOS  IN  N.Y.;  GRASS, 
FLOWERS  TO  GROW 
IN  STREET 


CATHOLIC,  PROTESTANT, 
JEWISH  BISHOPS  HAIL 
RELIGIOUS  BOON:  OK 
LSD  AS  SACRAMENT 


LSD  CANDIDATES  SWEEP 
SWEDISH  ELECTION 


170  00    Random  Spinning 


YOUTHFUL  VOTERS  BACK 
RFK:  HUMPHREY,  GOP 
CALL  FOR  MARTIAL  LAW 


LSD  ACCELERATES 
LEARNING:  TO  BE  USED 
IN  ALL  HIGH  SCHOOLS 


DRAMATIC  DROP  IN 
DIVORCE  RATE  ASCRIBED 
TO  LSD 


ALCOHOLISM,  CRIME 
RATE  ALMOST  ELIMI- 
NATED IN  U.S. 


MISSISSIPPI  NEGROES, 
WHITES  INTEGRATE  IN 
LSD  SCHOOLS 


LSD  CENTER  IN  MILL- 
BROOK  DECLARED 
NATIONAL  SHRINE 


LSD  COMMISSION  DE- 
NOUNCES USE  OF 
ELECTRONIC  BRAIN 
STIMULATION 


EBS  SCIENTIST  DE- 
NOUNCED AS  NUT  BY 
LSD  AUTHORITIES 


ELECTRONIC  BRAIN 
STIMULATION  CLAIMED 
SAFE— BETTER  THAN  LSD 


EBS  CULT  LEADER  AR- 
RESTED FOR  UNAUTHOR- 
IZED EXPERIMENTS 


LEARY  FOLLOWERS 
DEMAND  LAWS  AGAINST 
NEW  MIND  STIMULATORS 


LSD  SOCIETIES  DERIDE 
RELIGIOUS  CLAIMS  OF 
EBS  CULT 


wisdom  and  his  caring  and  his  action  keep  the 
group  consciousness  from  spinning  off  into  eccen- 
tric whim. 

Man  has  received  from  heaven  a  nature  innately 
good,  to  guide  him  in  all  his  movements.  By  devo- 
tion to  this  divine  spirit  within  himself,  he  attains 
an  unsullied  innocence  that  leads  him  to  do  right 
with  instinctive  sureness  and  without  any  ulterior 
thought  of  reward  and  personal  advantage.  This 
instinctive  certainty  brings  about  supreme  success 
and  "furthers  through  perseverance."  ( I  Ching  XXV) 

And  a  fourth  lesson,  and  this  one  not  really 
understood  yet— the  incredible  suggestibility  and 
the  vulnerability  of  the  brain.  Under  the  psyche- 
delic trip  your  cortex  is  washed  clean  of  the 
rituals  and  cliches.  The  empty  mind.  So  far  so  good. 
But  then  if  the  situation  or  some  strong-minded 
person  in  the  situation  strikes  a  posture,  spins  out 
an  idea,  well,  you  are  much  more  likely  to  accept  it 
and  you  can't  call  on  any  of  your  past  cliches  to 
argue  yourself  out  of  it.  Jack  Kerouac  was  right 
when  he  warned  about  psychedelic  brainwashing. 
Once  the  concept  of  sickness-death  was  introduced, 
we  all  climbed  into  it  and  saw  disease  and  pain. 

But  what  to  do  about  this  vulnerability?  How 
could  the  trip  be  guided  in  the  love-learning  direc- 
tion? What  could  serve  as  compass  to  orient  the 
session  when  consciousness  spins  out  beyond  sym- 
bols? How  could  reminders,  maps  be  brought  along 
on  the  voyage?  And  exactly  which  maps  and  re- 
minders could  remain  useful  in  those  hurtling  re- 
gions where  routine  game  symbols  were  seen  as 
your  own  consciousness  talking  back  to  yourself? 
The  mocking  mirror  reflection  of  your  own  thought 
processes. 

The  answers  to  these  questions  (which  were  to 
preoccupy  me  for  the  better  part  of  the  next  six 
years )  are  spiritual  planning  and  prayer. 

Planning  the  who,  where,  when,  and  why  and 
how  of  the  session.  You  don't  make  love  in  the 
turmoil  of  Times  Square.  Neither  do  you  take  LSD 
there.  It's  risky  to  make  love  with  strangers.  You 
don't  have  your  mystical  experiences  with 
strangers.  Six  thousand  years  of  sacred  experimen- 


February  1961  00    171 


tation  suggest  how  the  environment  can  be 
arranged  to  produce  the  spiritual  experience. 

With  whom?  Alone  or  with  essence  friends  who 
share  your  spiritual  aims. 

Where?  In  a  setting  free  from  secular  distraction, 
profane  pressure,  accidental  interruption.  Since  the 
dawn  of  human  history  such  places  have  been  the 
center  of  any  civilized  God-fearing  way  of  life. 
They  are  called  shrines,  sacred  groves,  retreats, 
temples,  holy  places. 

When?  At  a  sacred  time  dedicated  to  the  spiri- 
tual quest.  A  sacred  time  is  selected  not  by  man's 
mind  but  by  the  greater,  older  energies— seasonal, 
solar,  lunar,  planetary,  menstrual. 

Why?  To  find  God.  To  divest  all  the  leathery, 
metal,  armor  plating  and  lie  naked,  exposed,  for 
God  to  find  you.  To  die  and  be  reborn. 

How?  Through  prayer.  Prayer  is  the  art  of  com- 
municative union  with  all  your  inner  selves.  Prayer 
is  compass  and  gyroscope.  Prayer  is  the  language 
that  makes  sense  to  your  eye,  ear,  nose,  tongue, 
touch;  to  your  heart  ( thump  thump ) ,  to  your  lungs 
( inhale-exhale ) ,  to  your  bowels,  to  your  genitals,  to 
your  ancient  cells,  to  your  ancient  selves— hairy, 
fanged,  clawed,  scaled,  reptile,  amphibious,  pro  to- 
zoic.  Prayer  is  the  energy  language  of  God. 

The  history  of  our  research  on  the  psychedelic 
experience  is  the  story  of  how  we  learned  how  to 
pray. 


EBS  CAUSED   INSANITY, 
SUICIDE,  SAYS  LSD 
SPOKESMAN 


HIGH-SCHOOL  STUDENTS 
USING  EBS  FOR  KICKS 


TIMOTHY  LEARY  EN- 
DORSES EBS:  IS  CALLED 
SENILE  TRAITOR  BY  LSD 
COMMISSIONER 


YOUTH  GROUPS  ATTACK 
LSD  ORTHODOXY 


EBS  LEADERS  TO 
DEMONSTRATE  TELEP- 
ATHY IN  WHITE  HOUSE 


GRAVE  MORAL-PSYCHO- 
LOGICAL PROBLEMS 
FORESEEN   IN   EBS 
TELEPATHY 


LSD,  EBS  LEADERS  JOIN 
ROSE  FESTIVAL  ON 
FIFTH  AVENUE 


00 


innocence.  Supreme  success. 

Perseverance  furthers. 

If  someone  is  not  as  he  should  he, 

He  has  misfortune, 

And  it  does  not  further  him 

To  undertake  anything. 

(IChing) 


a> 


3 


The  Sacrament  Can  Liberate 
the  Imprisoned: 

H 

W 
> 

a 

M 

o 

March  1961  G 

CD 

Guide :       willy  (  a  black  junkie  )  ^ 

O 
Oracle:  XLIX  O 

S 

O 

o 

H 

The  Joyous,  Lake  Q 


Revolution  (Molting) 


The  Clinging,  Fire 


Fire  in  the  lake:  the  image  of  revolution. 
Thus  the  superior  man 
Sets  the  calendar  in  order 
And  makes  the  seasons  clear. 

(IChing) 


> 


TRIP  9 


Second  Annual  Report; 
Psilocybin  Rehabilitation 
Project: 

All  the  professional  work  on 
this  project  was  volunteer. 
The  expenses  for  clerical 
assistance  and  salaries  for 
ex-inmate  workers  were 
covered  by  generous  dona- 
tions from  The  Uris  Broth- 
ers Foundation,  New  York, 
and  the  Parapsychology 
Foundation,  Eileen  Garrett, 
President. 


Applications  to  three  of- 
fices of  the  U.S.  Public 
Health  Service  requesting 
support  for  continuing  this 
project  were  refused. 


Exactly  two  years  ago  the 
Harvard  Psilocybin  Project 
initiated  a  research  pro- 
gram at  Massachusetts  Cor- 
rectional Institution,  Con- 
cord, designed  to  test  the 
effects  of  consciousness-ex- 
panding drugs  on  prisoner 
rehabilitation. 


The  project  was  designed 
as  a  pilot  study — neces- 
sarily exploratory — since 
little  was  known  about  the 
long-range  application  of 
the  substances. 


During  the  fall  and  the  winter  of  i960,  much  of  my 
time  and  energy  was  going  into  the  study  of  the 
effects  of  the  psychedelic  mushrooms.  I  was  also 
carrying  on  an  active  program  of  lecturing,  teach- 
ing, and  field  work  in  clinical  psychology  in  the 
Harvard  Graduate  School.  I  had  been  brought  to 
Harvard  in  1959  in  order  to  introduce  existential- 
transactional  methods  for  behavior  change.  After 
fifteen  years  of  practicing  psychotherapy  and  about 
ten  years  of  doing  research  on  psychotherapy,  I  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  very  little 
that  one  person  called  a  doctor  could  do  for  an- 
other person  called  a  patient  by  talking  to  him 
across  a  desk,  or  listening  to  him  as  he  lay  on  a 
couch.  I  developed  a  lot  of  theories  and  a  lot  of 
methods  on  how  behavior  change  could  be  brought 
about  more  effectively  than  the  standard  clinical 
interview  method. 

There  are  two  main  points  to  the  theories  I  de- 
veloped; first  (transactional)  I  was  convinced  that 
the  doctor  had  to  suspend  his  role  and  status  as  a 
doctor,  had  to  join  the  other  person  actively  and 
collaboratively  in  figuring  out  the  solution  to  his 
problem.  As  much  as  possible,  the  doctor  had  to 
turn  over  the  responsibility  to  the  man  who  knew 
most  about  the  problem  at  hand,  namely,  the  pa- 
tient. I  developed  many  techniques  for  getting  pa- 
tients to  help  each  other. 

The  second  point  in  my  theory  (existential)  was 
that  the  doctor  has  to  leave  the  safety  of  his  consult- 
ing room  and  get  out  there  in  the  field  where  the 
so-called  patient  is  having  his  unique  problems,  and 
where  he  is  going  to  solve  his  problems.  I  saw  the 
role  of  the  doctor  as  that  of  a  coach  in  a  game  in 
which  the  patient  was  the  star  player.  The  coach 
can  help,  can  point  out  mistakes,  can  share  his 
wisdom,  but  in  the  last  analysis,  the  guy  who  does 
174 


March  1961   00    175 


the  job  is  the  guy  out  there  in  the  field,  the  so- 
called  patient. 

I  was  enthusiastic  about  these  theories  because 
they  worked,  and  because  no  joy  in  teaching  can 
equal  that  thrill  which  comes  when  you  watch 
someone  who's  been  hung  up,  and  blocked,  and 
confused,  and  making  a  mess  of  things  out  there  in 
the  field  suddenly  learn  how.  All  this  had  started 
happening  before  I  got  involved"  in  the  drug  re- 
search, and  I  had  already  become  a  controversial 
figure  around  the  Boston  area,  because  everything 
that  I  was  saying  made  a  tremendous  amount  of 
sense  to  students  and  patients,  but  the  doctors,  the 
psychiatrists,  the  social  workers,  the  professors,  the 
psychologists,  were  not  so  quick  to  accept  these 
theories.  I  was  asking  them  to  give  up  the  status 
and  the  omniscient  position  which  they  felt  their 
training  entitled  them  to.  I  asked  them  to  turn  over 
the  authority  and  the  star  role  in  the  game  to  the 
patient. 

Times  change,  and  with  them  their  demands.  Thus 
the  seasons  change  in  the  course  of  the  year.  In  the 
world  cycle  also  there  are  spring  and  autumn  in  the 
life  of  peoples  and  nations,  and  these  call  for  social 
transformations.  ( I  Ching  XLIX ) 


The  key  issue  was  the  use 
of  a  consciousness-ex- 
panding drug;  but  equally 
important  was  the  philos- 
ophy underlying  the  re- 
search, which  emphasized: 


DEMOCRATIC 
COLLABORATION: 

Inmates  were  given  respon- 
sibility for  planning  and 
evaluating  the  work.  This 
was  seen  as  preparation  for 
assuming  roles  as  respon- 
sible citizens  in  a  demo- 
cratic society. 


SHARING  OF 
INFORMATION: 

The  inmates  were  given  all 
information  relevant  to  their 
treatment.  This  was  seen 
as  a  necessary  step  in  in- 
creasing trust  and  self-re- 
spect. 


I  was  taking  one  day  off  a  week  to  drive  down 
with  two  or  three  graduate  students  to  New  Bed- 
ford, Massachusetts,  where  we  were  working  in  an 
orphanage,  teaching  social  workers  and  nuns  to  set 
up  groups  in  which  older  kids  would  help  younger 
kids,  and  in  which  children  at  every  age  level  were 
encouraged  to  take  more  responsibility  for  running 
the  school  and  planning  their  lives. 

We  set  up  another  project  in  a  slum  housing 
district  in  a  Boston  suburb.  Here  were  hundreds  of 
people  who  were  bogged  down  socially  and  psycho- 
logically. They  could  not  afford  psychiatric  help 
and  there  was  none  available  for  them.  With  an- 
other group  of  graduate  students,  I  used  to  go 
down  there  one  night  a  week  with  tape  recorders 
and  blackboards.  We  set  up  headquarters  in  one  of 
the  slum  apartments  and  started  teaching  groups  of 
the  neighbors  how  they  could  help  each  other  and 


SPIRITUAL  INSIGHT: 

The  transcendental  experi- 
ence provided  by  the  drugs 
propels  the  subject  beyond 
space,  time,  ego,  culture, 
etc.  The  implications  of  this 
visionary  experience  were 
utilized  in  the  program. 


INTERPERSONAL  TRUST 
AND  CLOSENESS: 

Evidence  shows  that  when 
subjects  share  an  ego-shat- 
tering experience  together 
they  develop  strong  positive 
emotional  bonds. 


176  00    Liberate  the  Imprisoned 


SELF-HELP  AND  MUTUAL 
HELP: 

The  most  successful  re- 
habilitation methods  (A.A., 
Synanon  group  dynamic  T 
groups,  etc.)  seem  to  be 
those  which  turn  over  re- 
sponsibility to  the  subjects 
themselves  and  which  stim- 
ulate them  to  help  each 
other.  The  drug  experience 
facilitates  this  tendency. 


EMOTIONAL  AND 
PRACTICAL  SUPPORT: 

The  model  used  was  not 
doctor-patient  or  expert- 
client  but  that  of  human  be- 
ings who  believe  in  each 
other  and  want  to  help  each 
other. 


The  project  developed  the 
model  of  friends  who  are 
available  to  help  group 
members  stay  out  of  trouble 
and  maintain  a  responsible 
role  in  society. 


In  our  research  we  helped 
inmates  get  jobs,  purchase 
union  cards,  made  small 
loans  and  spent  hours  in 
friendly  advising  interaction. 


PROCEDURES: 

Since  its  initiation,  the  proj- 
ect has  operated  under  the 
medical  and  psychiatric 
supervision  of  Dr.  W.  Madi- 
son Presnell. 


become  psychiatrists  for  each  other  and  develop 
some  facility  for  solving  their  own  problems. 

All  this,  of  course,  was  very  declasse  at  Harvard. 
Universities  are  supposed  to  be  research  institutes, 
and  if  you  get  too  involved  in  service  functions  or 
helping  people,  you're  considered  a  bleeding  heart. 
I  was  able  to  justify  the  work  in  the  orphanage,  the 
work  with  alcoholics,  the  work  in  the  slum  projects, 
by  using  the  word  methodology.  We  weren't 
really  trying  to  help  these  people.  No  sir,  not  us. 
We  were  trying  to  develop  new  techniques  and 
scientific  methods  for  changing  psychotherapeutic 
theory.  Of  course,  if  people  enjoyed  it  and  got  help, 
that  was  an  interesting  by-product  which  supported 
the  method  and  the  theory.  It  was  all  experimental, 
you  see.  It  became  a  tradition  in  the  center  where  I 
worked  that  any  time  they  got  a  call  from  a  do- 
good  social  service  agency  requesting  Harvard's 
help  in  curing  any  sort  of  social  disease,  the  request 
was  likely  to  get  bucked  to  me  because  they  knew 
that  this  was  my  vice  and  my  eccentricity. 

One  day  I  got  a  note  in  my  box  saying  that  two 
men  from  the  Department  of  Legal  Medicine  were 
interested  in  enlisting  Harvard's  help  in  the  psycho- 
logical rehabilitation  of  prisoners.  Now  prison  work 
is  considered  to  be  the  least  interesting,  lowest 
status  work  you  can  do  in  the  field  of  psychology, 
psychiatry,  and  sociology.  The  problems  are  hope- 
less. Criminals  never  change.  The  atmosphere  is 
dreary  and  the  academic  rewards  are  slim.  But 
when  I  found  this  little  piece  of  paper  in  my  box 
requesting  an  appointment  from  two  officials  from 
the  Department  of  Legal  Medicine,  I  chuckled  all 
the  way  to  my  office  because  this  was  just  the 
chance  I  was  looking  for. 

By  this  time,  we  had  given  the  psychedelic  mush- 
rooms to  about  a  hundred  people  in  a  wide  variety 
of  circumstances,  and  we  had  learned  a  lot  about 
the  process.  In  spite  of  the  bungling  and  the  confu- 
sion and  our  ignorance,  we  still  hadn't  caused  any 
damage  to  anyone  and  there  were  a  lot  of  mistakes 
that  we'd  never  make  again.  By  this  time  we  had 
learned  a  few  things  about  how  to  run  the  sessions. 
About  90  percent  of  the  people  who  were  taking  the 
magic  mushrooms  were  reporting  the  most  ecstatic 


March  1961  00    177 


and  educational  experience  of  their  lives.  The  prob- 
lem was,  there  was  no  way  to  get  any  measurement 
as  to  how  much  good  we  were  doing.  There  was  no 
way  to  keep  score. 

This  of  course  is  the  main  problem  in  the  field  of 
psychotherapy.  You  can  develop  a  completely  effec- 
tive method  of  treating  people's  psychological  prob- 
lems, but  there  is  no  way  you  can  prove  it.  You  can 
work  with  one  thousand  people  and  help  every  one 
of  them  change  his  way  of  thinking  and  his  way  of 
acting,  but  there  are  no  statistics  (like  hits,  runs, 
and  errors)  with  which  to  tabulate  your  score. 
The  problem  is  that  half  the  people  you  help  are 
going  to  get  better  jobs,  and  half  of  them  are  going 
to  quit  the  jobs  they  have.  Half  of  them  may 
increase  the  intimacy  and  closeness  and  meaning  in 
their  marriages,  but  the  other  half  may  leave  their 
wives.  Changing  a  person's  psyche  is  one  thing,  but 
measuring  results  in  an  observable  way  is  another 
thing.  Because  who's  to  say  which  behavior  reflects 
growth  and  change. 

Here's  where  the  prison  came  in.  The  prison  is 
the  ideal  place  to  do  a  study  in  psychotherapy 
behavior  change,  because  when  you  try  to  rehabili- 
tate prisoners,  you've  got  an  ironclad  statistic  you 
can  work  against.  It's  called  the  recidivism  rate. 
When  you  are  working  with  people  outside,  they 
may  quit  their  job  and  join  the  Peace  Corps,  or 
they  may  quit  their  job  and  join  the  ministry,  or  they 
may  quit  the  ministry  and  take  up  guitar,  and  you 
know  about  the  growth  of  this  person,  but  who  else 
will  believe  it?  But  when  you  work  with  prisoners 
and  you  think  you've  helped  them  change,  grow, 
and  become  more  effective  people,  there's  an  easy 
way  to  tell.  Where  are  they  a  year  after  you've 
finished  with  them?  Are  they  back  in  jail,  or  are 
they  making  it  on  the  outside?  Prisoner  rehabilita- 
tion offers  the  most  objective  check  for  someone 
who  claims  he  can  bring  about  change  in  behavior. 
In  the  prisons  of  Massachusetts  the  recidivism  rate 
is  about  jo  percent.  Seven  out  of  every  ten  men 
who  leave  prison,  return.  If  you  develop  a  new  and 
surefire  way  of  changing  man's  mind,  the  prison 
presents  the  toughest  and  cleanest  test  of  your 
effectiveness.  Can  you  keep  him  out  of  jail?  That's 


Inmates  received  on  the 
average  four  doses  of  psilo- 
cybin.  Dosage  ran  from  20 
mg.  in  early  sessions  to  70 
mg.  Now  we  employ  30  mg. 
as  a  standard,  moderate 
dose. 


Inmates  were  given  person- 
ality tests  before,  and  six 
months  after,  the  program 
began.  Significant  de- 
creases in  hostility,  cyni- 
cism, social  delinquency 
and  irresponsibility  were 
registered. 


There  seems  to  be  general 
agreement  that  the  effects 
of  the  program  in-the-insti- 
tution  were  quite  dramatic. 
The  behavior  and  attitude 
of  the  project  members  be- 
came more  mature  and  so- 
cial. 


The  post-release  events, 
however,  involved  a  differ- 
ent set  of  factors  and  re- 
quired several  revisions  in 
the  program. 


POST-RELEASE 
PROGRAM: 

The  main  conclusion  of  our 
two-year  pilot  study  is  that 
institutional  programs,  how- 
ever effective,  count  for 
little  after  the  ex-convict 
reaches  the  street.  The  so- 
cial pressures  faced  are  so 
overwhelming  as  to  make 
change  very  difficult. 


We  recognized  very  early  in 
our  work  the  advantages  of 
a  post-release  program. 


178  00    Liberate  the  Imprisoned 


Our  philosophic  and  theo- 
retical orientation  led  us  to 
encourage  inmates  to  plan 
and  execute  their  own  pro- 
gram. 


We  fondly  hoped  for  a  half- 
way house  run  by  ex-in- 
mates along  the  lines  of  the 
successful  Synanon  pro- 
gram. 


In  June,  1961,  a  non-profit 
organization,  Freedom  Cen- 
ter, was  set  up  to  admin- 
ister the  post-release  pro- 
gram. Our  hopes  for  a  con- 
vict-run halfway  house  did 
not  materialize. 


We  had  too  few  men  in  the 
Boston  area  and  they  were 
too  caught  up  in  the  des- 
perate struggle  to  survive, 
to  spare  time,  to  help 
others. 


In  1961,  as  a  beginning  step 
toward  a  halfway  house,  we 
began  Project  Contact.  The 
purpose  of  this  project  was 
to  keep  in  regular  contact 
with  all  group  members. 


By  these  means  we  were 
able  to  reach  ninety-one 
percent  of  ex-inmates  living 
in  Massachusetts. 


A  newsletter  and  personal 
letters  also  kept  up  con- 
tact and  seemed  to  be  ef- 
fective in  helping  the  re- 
habilitation spirit  stay  alive. 


why  I  wanted  to  get  into  the  prison. 

Now,  the  reason  the  prison  psychologists  wanted 
to  get  into  Harvard  is  that  everyone  in  any  aca- 
demic or  professional  activity  in  the  Boston  area 
has  one  way  of  measuring  his  success.  Can  he  get 
on  the  Harvard  payroll?  The  word  Harvard  in  the 
Boston  area  is  a  powerful  status  symbol  that  oper- 
ates at  every  level  of  society.  There  are  several 
thousand  janitors  around  the  Boston  area,  but  if 
you  are  a  janitor  at  Harvard,  you're  a  prince  among 
custodians.  The  same  with  a  cook,  the  same  with  a 
gardener,  the  same  with  a  psychologist. 

A  week  later,  I  found  myself  sitting  at  a  corner 
table  in  the  Harvard  Faculty  Club  with  two  officials 
from  the  Massachusetts  prison  system.  What  they 
wanted  was  simple.  They  wanted  to  have  Harvard 
graduate  students  assigned  to  the  prisons  as  psy- 
chology interns  with  a  possible  long-range  hope  of 
getting  themselves  clinical  professorships  at  Har- 
vard. And  what  I  wanted  was  to  get  Harvard 
graduate  students  into  the  prisons  because  that's 
where  I  felt  that  all  embryonic  psychologists  should 
be— out  in  the  field,  dealing  with  real  people  and 
real  problems.  But  there  was  something  else  I 
wanted— and  that  was  the  chance  to  show  that  we 
could  rehabilitate  criminals  by  using  the  sacred 
mushrooms.  And  so  the  deal  was  made.  I  agreed  to 
get  Harvard  approval  to  send  graduate  students  to 
internships  in  the  prison,  and  they  agreed  that  if  I 
could  get  the  approval  of  the  warden  and  the 
prison  psychiatrists,  I  could  give  psychedelic  mush- 
rooms to  prisoners. 

About  a  week  later  I  drove  out  to  the  prison.  I 
wore  my  Harvard  tweed  suit  and  my  button-down 
shirt.  The  warden  was  impressed  and  pleased.  It 
wasn't  often  that  Harvard  professors  came  out  to 
the  prison  to  do  research.  But  the  whole  thing 
hinged  on  the  approval  of  the  psychiatrists,  because 
the  sacred  mushrooms  were  drugs  and  to  work  with 
drugs  you  had  to  have  the  medical  okay.  So,  we 
walked  down  the  hallway  to  the  metal  cage  that  let 
us  into  the  prison.  We  opened  up  the  first  steel  door 
and  we  stood  in  the  anteroom.  Then  we  rang  a  bell, 
a  slot  opened,  and  a  guard  looked  at  us  and  opened 
up  the  second  metal  door.  We  walked  into  the 


March  1961  00    179 


middle  of  the  guardroom,  across  the  prison  yard  to 
the  hospital  where  we  rang  the  bell  and  got  peered 
at  through  the  slot,  heard  the  metal  hinges  creak, 
and  walked  into  the  prison  hospital.  We  walked 
down  the  corridor  to  the  psychiatrist's  office  and 
knocked  on  the  door.  After  a  minute,  out  walked 
one  of  the  most  entertaining  and  interesting  men  in 
American  psychiatry.  The  first  thing  that  struck  me 
about  the  prison  psychiatrist  was  that  he  was  the 
best-dressed  man  I  had  ever  seen.  He  was  short, 
graceful,  like  a  ballet  dancer.  The  first  Negro  psy- 
chiatrist I  had  ever  met.  I  spent  an  hour  talking 
with  Dr.  Madison  Presnell.  He  was  no  intellectual; 
he  mispronounced  some  of  the  polysyllabic  words, 
but  he  had  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  and  a  wise,  cool  way 
of  looking  at  you  that  told  you  he  was  a  man  who 
had  seen  a  lot  and  suffered  a  lot,  and  was  still 
looking  for  the  funniest  and  wisest  part  of  everyone 
he  came  in  contact  with. 

In  sizing  up  Dr.  Presnell,  I  could  say  to  myself  a 
word  I  had  heard  used  quite  often  in  recent 
months.  He  was  hip.  It  was  obvious,  too,  that  he 
had  had  some  experience  with  psychedelic  drugs. 
Which  ones,  he  didn't  make  clear.  He  could  have 
had  LSD  in  medical  school,  or  mescaline  in  psy- 
chiatric research,  or  maybe  pot  in  the  Village,  but 
he  knew  what  I  was  talking  about. 

A  few  days  later  Dr.  Presnell  came  over  to  Har- 
vard to  meet  some  of  my  bosses,  and  the  following 
Sunday  he  brought  his  beautiful  and  intelligent 
wife  over  to  my  house  for  cocktails.  He  sat  down  on 
a  chair  in  my  study,  thought  for  a  minute  and  said, 
"Your  plan  to  give  psychedelic  drugs  to  prisoners  is 
the  best  idea  I've  heard  for  dealing  with  an  impos- 
sible problem.  If  you're  smart  enough  and  dedi- 
cated enough  to  know  how  to  do  it,  you  could  make 
it  work.  There's  one  chance  in  a  hundred  you  can 
pull  it  off,  but  if  you  do,  you  will  have  accom- 
plished more  for  American  society  and  for  prisoner 
rehabilitation  than  has  been  done  in  the  last  four 
thousand  years  since  the  code  of  Hammurabi.  But 
it's  risky  business.  You're  bound  to  run  into  trouble. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  more  successful  you  are,  the 
more  trouble  you're  going  to  stir  up.  Because  one 
thing  I've  learned  as  a  prison  psychiatrist  is  that 


But  increased  contact  only 
strengthened  our  convic- 
tions that  an  A.A.-type  or- 
ganization of  ex-convicts  is 
necessary. 


The  initial  step  of  finding 
the  small  nucleus  of  men 
who  are  ready  to  make  the 
dedication  needed  has  not 
yet  been  taken. 


As  a  possible  solution  we 
hope  to  be  able  to  send 
two  ex-inmates  to  spend  a 
month  living  at  Synanon 
House,  Santa  Monica. 


The  Director  of  Synanon, 
Mr.  Chuck  Dederich,  has  ex- 
pressed interest  in  this 
project. 


The  next  step  of  selecting 
two  ex-inmates  to  make  the 
trip  is  waiting  to  be  taken. 


Upon  their  return,  Freedom 
Center  is  prepared  to  offer 
its  resources  to  support  a 
local  self-help  residence 
program. 


RESULTS: 

Plans  and  hopes  are  one 
thing,  but  the  actual  score 
card  of  accomplishments 
provides  the  crucial  evi- 
dence. What  are  the  avail- 
able results? 


180  00    Liberate  the  Imprisoned 


PSILOCYBIN  IS  SAFE: 

Thirty-five  inmates  and  ten 
Harvard  staff  members  have 
had  group  psilocybin  ex- 
periences at  Concord. 


There  were  131  inmate  in- 
gestions and  37  staff  in- 
gestions, a  total  of  168  ex- 
periences. There  were  no 
episodes  of  violence,  last- 
ing disturbances  or  nega- 
tive after-effects. 


Physically  and  psychologi- 
cally there  is  clear-cut  evi- 
dence that  in  a  supportive 
environment  the  drug  effect 
is  safe  and  positive. 


Those  interested  in  using 
psilocybin  for  research  or 
therapy  purposes  can  pro- 
ceed with  confidence  if 
their  program  is  open,  sup- 
portive, collaborative. 


PSILOCYBIN  PRODUCES 
TEMPORARY  STATES  OF 
SPIRITUAL  CONVERSION, 
INTERPERSONAL 
CLOSENESS,  AND 
PSYCHOLOGICAL 
INSIGHT 


Forty-five  percent  of  the  en- 
tire inmate  group  clearly 
underwent  a  mystical,  tran- 
scendent, death-rebirth  ex- 
perience. 


This  figure  should  be  modi- 
fied, however.  The  results 
for  running  sessions  im- 
proved so  that  100%  of  our 
recent  groups  were  under- 
going transcendent  experi- 
ences. 


society  doesn't  want  the  prisoner  rehabilitated,  and 
as  soon  as  you  start  changing  prisoners  so  that  they 
discover  beauty  and  wisdom,  God,  you're  going  to 
stir  up  the  biggest  mess  that  Boston  has  seen  since 
the  Boston  Tea  Party.  I'll  give  you  medical  cover- 
age and  I'll  be  glad  to  serve  as  psychiatric  consul- 
tant and  I'll  back  you  up  all  the  way  with  the 
wardens,  with  the  guards,  with  the  mental  health 
department,  but  sooner  or  later,  as  soon  as  they  see 
the  thing  you  do  is  working,  they're  going  to  come 
down  on  you— the  newspaper  reporters,  the  bu- 
reaucrats, and  the  officials.  Harvard  gives  drugs  to 
prisoners!  And  you're  going  to  have  to  do  the 
impossible— you're  going  to  have  to  cure  prisoners 
with  your  left  hand,  and  that's  something  that's 
never  been  done  before,  and  you're  going  to  have 
to  hold  off  the  entire  bureaucracy  of  the  state  of 
Massachusetts  with ,  your  right  hand,  and  that's 
never  been  done  before,  not  even  by  a  Kennedy. 
So,  I'll  back  you  all  the  way,  until  you  make  a 
mistake,  and  when  you  make  that  mistake,  and  they 
all  start  coming  down  at  you,  exactly  at  that  point, 
I'm  going  to  walk  out  because  I'm  not  you.  I'm  not 
the  rtew  Freud,  and  I  have  no  ambitions  to  play 
that  game.  I'm  a  Negro  from  the  South  with  a 
degree  from  a  second-class  medical  school,  with  a 
wife  and  two  kids  whom  I'm  trying  to  support  and 
educate  in  an  insane  society,  and  I'll  help  you  all 
the  way  to  win,  but  I'm  not  going  to  lose  with 
you. 

Political  revolutions  are  extremely  grave  matters. 
They  should  be  undertaken  only  under  stress  of 
direst  necessity,  when  there  is  no  other  way  out. 
Not  everyone  is  called  to  this  task,  but  only  the  man 
who  has  the  confidence  of  the  people,  and  even  he 
only  when  the  time  is  ripe.  He  must  then  proceed  in 
the  right  way,  so  that  he  gladdens  the  people  and, 
by  enlightening  them,  prevents  excesses.  Further- 
more, he  must  be  quite  free  of  selfish  aims  and 
must  really  relieve  the  need  of  the  people.  Only 
then  does  he  have  nothing  to  regret.  ( I  Ching  XLIX ) 

And  so  it  was  settled.  Dr.  Presnell  would  line  up 
volunteers  in  the  prisoner  population  for  the  sacred 


March  1961  00    181 


mushroom  project  and  I  would  go  back  to  Harvard 
and  get  graduate  students  who  would  volunteer 
their  time  and  energy  and  their  nervous  systems  to 
take  drugs  with  maximum  security  prisoners  at  the 
penitentiary. 

A  few  days  later  I  was  in  my  office  when  a  knock 
came  on  the  door,  and  I  was  visited  by  a  graduate 
student  named  Ralph  Metzner.  Metzner  had  a  rep- 
utation for  being  one  of  the  smartest  students  in  the 
department.  He  was  a  graduate  of  Oxford,  an 
experimentalist,  a  precise,  objective,  and  apparently 
very  academic  young  man.  He  said  he  had  heard 
about  the  prison  project  and  he  wanted  to  work 
with  me  on  it.  My  first  reaction  was  that  Metzner 
was  too  academic,  too  dainty-British,  too  bookish, 
too  ivory  tower,  to  walk  into  a  prison  and  roll  up 
his  sleeves  and  take  drugs  that  would  put  him  out 
of  his  mind,  with  rough  and  tumble  prisoners. 
Metzner  said  he  wanted  to  learn  how.  Then  I  said, 
Before  you  can  give  drugs  and  take  drugs  with 
anyone  else,  you  have  to  have  some  experiences 
yourself.  Are  you  ready  to  take  mushrooms?  He 
was  ready.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  that's  exactly  what 
he  wanted  to  do,  to  have  a  session. 

And  so  it  happened  that  on  March  12,  1961,  at 
my  home  in  Newton,  Massachusetts,  I  ran  a  session 
for  Dr.  Presnell  and  his  beautiful  wife,  for  Ralph 
Metzner  and  his  girl  friend  and  another  graduate 
student,  Gunther  Weil  and  his  wife,  Karen.  This 
was  the  fifty-second  time  I  had  taken  psilocybin 
with  other  people.  The  notes  on  the  session  say, 
This  training  session  was  designed  to  introduce 
several  new  subjects  to  the  sacred  mushroom  expe- 
rience under  supportive  circumstances. 

The  session  took  place  in  my  study.  Since  this 
was  an  exploratory  training  session,  I  told  the  par- 
ticipants that  they  should  relax,  have  a  good  time, 
be  entertained,  and  learn  what  they  could.  Dr. 
Presnell  was  the  dominating  factor  in  this  session. 
His  joking  and  warm  attitude  created  a  benign 
atmosphere.  Each  new  subject  had  his  spouse  or  a 
trusted  friend  present.  After  a  long  period  of 
happy,  relaxed  giggling,  the  joking  became  more 
and  more  philosophic.  Members  of  the  group 
would  leave  the  room  periodically  to  be  by  them- 


The  life-changing  therapeu- 
tic effects  of  the  psilocybin 
experience  do  not  last  for 
more  than  seventy-two 
hours  unless  the  subject  is 
in  a  situation  which  en- 
courages him  to  maintain 
his  emotional  and  spiritual 
insights. 


Therefore,  psilocybin  must 
be  used  in  on-going  pro- 
grams of  therapy  or  self- 
help.  When  employed  in 
such  programs,  psilocybin 
is  a  dramatically  useful, 
educational,  and  rehabilita- 
tive instrument. 


If  the  subject  shares  time 
and  space  subsequently 
with  those  who  have  had 
the  experience,  his  chances 
of  maintaining  the  insights 
are  increased. 


The  actual  scoreboard  is 
difficult  to  interpret.  The 
aims  of  this  project  were: 
1)  to  help  keep  men  on  the 
street  and  2)  to  help  them 
in  constructive  contact  with 
each  other. 


RESULT  PERCENTAGES 
January  15,  1963: 

Percentage  of  men  released 
who  are  now  on  street  .  .  . 
73. 

Percentage  of  men  now 
back  for  technical  parole 
violation  ...  19. 

Percentage  of  men  now 
back  for  new  crimes  ...  8. 


182  00    Liberate  the  Imprisoned 


If  ex-convicts  who  have  had 
a  psilocybin  experience  in 
a  supportive  environment 
meet  regularly  after  release 
(these  statistics  suggest 
once  a  month),  the  chances 
of  their  remaining  on  the 
street  will  be  dramatically 
improved. 


The  Harvard  staff  members 
— Dr.  Ralph  Metzner,  Gun- 
therWeil,  Dr.  Ralph  Schwitz- 
gebel,  Jonathan  Clark, 
David  Kolb,  Michael  Hol- 
lingshead,  Kathy  Harris,  Dr. 
Timothy  Leary — who  con- 
tributed several  thousands 
of  hours  each  to  this  work, 
cared  deeply  and  suffered 
keen  disappointments  as 
they  witnessed  the  failures. 


But  the  results  summarized 
in  this  report  offer  some 
consolation  that  the  time 
shared  in  psilocybin  experi- 
ences, and  the  meetings  in 
and  out  of  Concord  were 
educational,  and  somewhat 
effective. 


SUMMARY: 

Thirty-one  inmates  of  MCI 
Concord  participated  in  a 
rehabilitation  program  com- 
bining: 


.  .  .  psilocybin  administered 
in  a  supportive  setting,  and 
.  .  .  volunteer  contact  of 
inmates  after  release. 


selves  or  to  talk  in  pairs,  but  my  study  operated  as 
the  center  for  the  session.  There  were  no  discordant 
notes,  no  anxiety,  depression,  or  friction.  We  were 
finally  getting  to  the  point  where  we  knew  how  to 
set  up  a  pleasant  session.  Each  member  of  this  six- 
person  group  reported  a  deep,  ecstatic,  educational 
experience. 

A  few  days  after  this  session,  Ralph  Metzner, 
Gunther  Weil,  and  I  drove  out  to  the  concrete 
prison  and  met  with  the  six  volunteers  who  had 
been  selected  by  Dr.  Presnell.  We  sat  around  a 
table,  in  a  dreary  hospital  room  with  gray  walls, 
black  asphalt  floor,  bars  in  the  windows,  telling  six 
skeptical  and  suspicious  men  about  an  experience 
which  could  change  their  lives. 

The  first  psychedelic  session  in  the  prison  was 
well  planned.  The  first  thing  we  did  was  to  tell  the 
prisoners  as  much  as  we  could  about  the  psyche- 
delic experience.  We  brought  in  books  for  them  to 
read,  reports  by  other  subjects,  articles  which  de- 
scribed the  terrors  as  well  as  the  ecstasies  of  the 
experience.  We  spent  most  of  the  time  describing 
our  own  experiences  and  answering  groping  ques- 
tions. We  made  it  very  clear  to  the  prisoners  that 
this  was  nothing  we  were  doing  to  them.  There  was 
no  doctor-patient  game  going  here.  We  would  take 
the  drugs  along  with  them.  We  were  doing  nothing 
to  them  that  we  wouldn't  willingly,  happily  have 
done  to  ourselves.  We  also  made  a  research  con- 
tract with  the  prisoners.  We  said  something  like 
this,  We  want  to  find  out  how  and  how  much  you 
change  during  this  experience.  For  this  reason,  we 
want  you  to  take  a  battery  of  psychological  tests 
before  you  eat  the  mushrooms.  Then,  after  three  or 
four  sessions  with  the  sacred  mushrooms,  we'll  give 
you  the  tests  again.  The  aim  here  is  to  find  out  how 
you  change,  like  you  weigh  yourself  on  a  scale 
before  and  after  you  go  on  a  diet.  After  you've 
taken  the  tests,  we'll  give  you  the  results.  We'll  go 
over  the  tests  with  you  and  explain  how  you  were 
before  and  how  you  changed.  Nothing  in  this  pro- 
ject is  going  to  be  a  secret.  We've  told  you  every- 
thing we  know  about  the  drugs  before  you  take 
them  and  we'll  tell  you  everything  we  know  about 
you  after  you  finish  your  sessions. 


March  1961   00    183 


That  sounded  like  a  good  deal  to  them,  and  the 
following  week  each  prisoner  was  administered  a 
long  and  complicated  battery  of  psychological  tests. 

And  it  happened  that  on  March  27,  1961,  in  the 
large  ward  room  in  the  prison  infirmary  in  Con- 
cord, Massachusetts,  five  prisoners  and  three  Har- 
vard psychologists  met  for  a  trip.  In  the  morning  I 
was  to  turn-on  with  three  convicts,  and  the  two 
other  prisoners  and  the  two  graduate  students 
would  act  as  observers.  Then  in  the  afternoon 
Gunther  Weil  and  Ralph  Metzner  and  the  two 
observing  prisoners  were  to  take  the  drug,  and  the 
rest  of  us  were  to  act  as  guides.  We  brought  a 
record  player,  tape  recorder,  and  some  books  of 
classical  art  with  us.  Otherwise  the  room  was  bleak 
in  decor,  with  four  beds,  a  large  table,  and  a  few 
chairs.  At  9:35  in  the  morning  the  bowl  of  pills  was 
placed  in  the  center  of  the  table.  I  was  the  first  one 
to  turn-on  in  the  prison  project.  I  reached  over, 
took  fourteen  milligrams  of  psilocybin.  Then  I 
handed  the  bowl  to  the  prisoner  next  to  me,  and  he 
took  twenty  milligrams  and  passed  it  on  to  the  guy 
next  to  him  who  took  twenty,  and  the  next  man. 
Then  we  pushed  the  bowl  to  the  middle  of  the 
table  and  sat  back  to  see  what  would  happen. 

I'll  never  forget  that  morning.  After  about  half  an 
hour,  I  could  feel  the  effect  coming  up,  the  loosen- 
ing of  symbolic  reality,  the  feeling  of  humming 
pressure  and  space  voyage  inside  my  head,  the 
sharp,  brilliant,  brutal  intensification  of  all  the  sen- 
ses. Every  cell  and  every  sense  organ  was  humming 
with  charged  electricity.  I  felt  terrible.  What  a 
place  to  be  on  a  gray  morning!  In  a  dingy  room  in  a 
grim  penitentiary,  out  of  my  mind.  I  looked  over  at 
the  man  next  to  me,  a  Polish  embezzler  from  Worces- 
ter, Massachusetts.  I  could  see  him  so  clearly.  I 
could  see  every  pore  in  his  face,  every  blemish,  the 
hairs  in  his  nose,  the  incredible  green-yellow 
enamel  of  the  decay  in  his  teeth,  the  wet  glistening 
of  his  frightened  eyes.  I  could  see  every  hair  in  his 
head,  as  though  each  was  as  big  as  an  oak  tree. 
What  a  confrontation!  What  am  I  doing  here,  out 
of  my  mind,  with  this  strange  mosaic-celled  animal, 
prisoner,  criminal? 

I  said  to  him  with  a  weak  grin,  How  are  you 
doing,  John?  He  said,  I  feel  fine.  Then  he  paused 


The  evidence  after  two 
years  of  operation  suggests 
that  the  drug  is  safe,  that 
the  experience  temporarily 
provides  personal  and  spir- 
itual insight,  and  has  some 
effect  in  keeping  inmates 
out  of  prison. 


A  listing  of  the  major  mis- 
takes and  improvements  in 
method  will  be  found  in  two 
publications,  one  in  press 
and  one  in  preparation. 

00 


From    the    Boston    Herald 
and  Traveler: 

CONVICTS  GAINS  CITED 
BY  STUDY 


Insight  drugs  called  boon 


IFIF  is  the  Internal  Federa- 
tion for  Internal  Freedom,  a 
non-profit  organization  in- 
volving the  use  of  con- 
scious-expanding drugs. 


The  supply  of  the  drug  has, 
temporarily  at  least,  been 
cut  off  because  the  medical 
supervision  required  by  fed- 
eral regulation  in  the  ad- 
ministration of  the  drugs  for 
research  has  been  with- 
drawn. 


184  00    Liberate  the  Imprisoned 


Backing  Withers 


And  the  group  has  been 
asked  to  vacate  the  medi- 
cal building  in  Charles 
River  Park  for  lack  of  medi- 
cal affiliation. 


In  addition,  the  supportive 
backing  at  the  academic 
level,  principally  at  Harvard, 
has  been  withering. 


But  troubles  or  no,  IFIF  and 
the  zealous  psychologists 
dedicated  to  the  proposition 
that  widespread  use  of 
drugs  such  as  psilocybin 
will  pretty  much  cure  the 
intellectual  ills  of  mankind, 
are  news. 


The  latest  concerns  a  study 
made  on  the  religious  im- 
pact the  drug  ingestion 
made  on  some  33  convicts 
at  the  Concord  reformatory 
in  which  eight  Harvard  psy- 
chologists worked  on  the 
pilot  program. 


Dr.  Timothy  Leary,  one  of 
the  co-founders  of  IFIF, 
wrote  the  report  on  the  pilot 
program  which  began  in 
mid-March  of  1961  and  con- 
tinued for  almost  two  years. 


Beginning  with  six  convicts, 
a  senior  investigator,  and 
two  graduate  students,  the 
study  came  to  include  33 
convicts  and  eight  psy- 
chologists. All  participated 
in  the  drug  ingestion. 


for  a  minute  and  asked,  How  are  you  doing,  Doc? 
I  was  about  to  say  in  a  reassuring  psychological 
tone  that  I  felt  fine,  but  I  couldn't,  so  I  said,  I  feel 
lousy.  John  drew  back  his  purple-pink  lips,  showed 
his  green-yellow  teeth  in  a  sickly  grin,  and  said, 
What's  the  matter,  Doc?  Why  you  feel  lousy?  I 
looked  with  my  two  microscopic  retina  lenses  into 
his  eyes.  I  could  see  every  line,  yellow  spider  webs, 
red  network  of  veins  gleaming  out  at  me.  I  said, 
John,  I'm  afraid  of  you.  His  eyes  got  bigger,  then  he 
began  to  laugh.  I  could  look  inside  his  mouth, 
swollen  red  tissues,  gums,  tongue,  throat.  I  was 
prepared  to  be  swallowed.  Then  I  heard  him  say, 
Well  that's  funny,  Doc,  'cause  I'm  afraid  of  you. 
We  were  both  smiling  at  this  point,  leaning  for- 
ward. Doc,  he  said,  why  are  you  afraid  of  me?  I 
said,  I'm  afraid  of  you,  John,  because  you're  a 
criminal.  He  nodded.  I  said,  John,  why  are  you 
afraid  of  me?  He  said,  I'm  afraid  of  you,  Doc, 
because  you're  a  mad  scientist.  Then  our  retinas 
locked  and  I  slid  down  into  the  tunnel  of  his  eyes, 
and  I  could  feel  him  walking  around  in  my  skull 
and  we  both  began  to  laugh.  And  there  it  was,  that 
dark  moment  of  fear  and  distrust,  which  could  have 
changed  in  a  second  to  become  hatred  and  terror. 
But  we  made  the  love  connection.  The  flicker  in  the 
dark.  Suddenly,  the  sun  came  out  in  the  room  and  I 
felt  great  and  I  knew  he  did  too. 

Fire  below  and  the  hike  above  combat  and  des- 
troy each  other.  So  too  in  the  course  of  the  year  a 
combat  takes  place  between  the  forces  of  light  and 
the  forces  of  darkness,  eventuating  in  the  revolution 
of  the  seasons.  Man  masters  these  changes  in 
nature  by  noting  their  regularity  and  marking  of 
the  passage  of  time  accordingly.  In  this  way  order 
and  clarity  appear  in  the  apparently  chaotic 
changes  of  the  seasons,  and  man  is  able  to  adjust 
himself  in  advance  to  the  demands  of  the  different 
times.  (IChingXLIX) 

We  had  passed  that  moment  of  crisis,  but  as  the 
minutes  slowly  ticked  on,  the  grimness  of  our  situ- 


186  00    Liberate  the  Imprisoned 


Test  Called  Success 


In  Dr.  Leary's  opinion,  the 
experiment  was  an  un- 
qualified success.  Ingestion 
of  the  drugs  produced  sud- 
den insight  that  one  has 
been  living  in  a  narrow 
space-time-self  context. 


"It's  all  a  game,  Doc,  cops 
and  robbers — we're  such 
tough  guys,"  he  quotes  one 
convict  as  saying.  "We  take 
it  all  so  seriously  as  though 
that's  all  there  is  to  life." 


He  reports  also  of  frequent 
mystical  insight  among  the 
convicts,  particularly  the 
death-rebirth  experience. 


"I  felt  helpless  and  wanted 
to  murder  you  guys  who  did 
it  to  me;  then  I  realized  it 
was  my  own  mind  doing  it; 
it's  always  been  my  own 
mind  imagining  troubles 
and  enemies,"  he  quotes 
one  convict. 


Over  half  the  hard-bitten 
convicts  displayed  a  sud- 
den swing  towards  in- 
creased religious  under- 
standing and  need,  accord- 
ing to  the  study  report. 


Return  Rate  Drops 

More  important,  perhaps,  in 
the  long  run  is  the  fact  that 
the  recidivism  rate  among 
the  convicts  who  have  been 
discharged  dropped  sharply. 


ation  kept  coming  back  in  microscopic  clarity. 
There  were  the  four  of  us,  turned-on,  every  sense 
vibrating,  pulsating  with  messages,  two  billion 
years  of  cellular  wisdom,  but  what  could  we  do 
trapped  within  the  four  walls  of  a  gray  hospital 
room,  barred  inside  a  maximum  security  prison? 
Then,  one  of  the  great  lessons  in  my  psychedelic 
training  took  place.  One  of  the  turned-on  prisoners 
was  a  Negro  from  Texas,  jazz  saxophone  player, 
heroin  addict.  He  looked  around  with  two  huge 
balls  of  ocular  white,  shook  his  head,  staggered 
over  to  the  record  player,  put  on  a  record.  It  was  a 
Sonny  Rollins  record  which  he'd  especially  asked  us 
to  bring.  Then  he  lay  down  on  the  cot  and  closed 
his  eyes.  The  rest  of  us  sat  by  the  table  while  metal 
air  from  the  yellow  saxophone  spinning  across 
copper  electric  wires  bounced  off  the  walls  of  the 
room.  There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  we  heard 
Willy  moaning  softly  and  moving  restlessly  on  the 
couch.  I  turned  and  looked  at  him  and  said,  Willy, 
are  you  all  right?  There  was  apprehension  in  my 
voice.  Everyone  in  the  room  swung  his  head  anx- 
iously to  look  and  listen  for  the  answer.  Willy  lifted 
his  head,  gave  a  big  grin,  and  said,  Man,  am  I  all 
right?  I'm  in  heaven  and  I  can't  believe  it!  Here  I 
am  in  heaven  man,  and  I'm  stoned  out  of  my  mind, 
and  I'm  swinging  like  I've  never  been  before  and 
it's  all  happening  in  prison,  and  you  ask  me  man, 
am  I  all  right.  What  a  laugh!  And  then  he  laughed 
and  we  all  laughed  and  suddenly  we  were  all  high 
and  happy  and  chuckling  at  what  we  had  done, 
bringing  music,  and  love,  and  beauty,  and  serenity, 
and  fun,  and  the  seed  of  life  into  that  grim  and 
dreary  prison. 

Well,  the  session  went  on  and  on.  There  were 
high  points  and  low  points,  ecstasies  and  terrors. 
My  friend  John,  the  Polish  man,  got  sick  and 
vomited.  We  all  got  pretty  thoughtful.  Why  are 
there  prisons?  Why  do  some  men  put  the  warm 
cellular  envelopes  of  their  fellowmen  in  metal 
cages?  What  were  we  doing  here?  Then  after  a  few 
hours,  Ralph  and  Gunther  and  the  two  remaining 
convicts  turned-on.  Gunther  was  silly  and  acting 
like  a  hipster,  and  Ralph  fell  down  on  the  bed  and 
experienced  visions  of  Blakean  terror.  Two  pris- 


188  00    Liberate  the  Imprisoned 


"Seventy-five  percent  are 
holding  their  own  against 
stiff  winds  and  treacherous 
currents,"  Dr.  Leary  says. 


The  expected  return  rate 
of  ex-convicts  to  the  Con- 
cord reformatory  would  be 
between  50  and  70  percent. 


But  even  in  his  claimed 
success  among  the  con- 
victs, Dr.  Leary  runs  up 
against  a  doubting  Thomas 
in  the  reformatory  Superin- 
tendent Edward  Grennan. 


Control  Questioned 


Grennan  feels  that  study 
was  done  without  a  control 
and  was  therefore  unscien- 
tific. 


"These  men  received  an  ex- 
tremely high  degree  of  per- 
sonal attention,"  he  said. 
"The  psychologists  even  set 
up  a  kind  of  criminal  AA  for 
the  paroled  prisoners  in 
Cambridge.  They  made 
themselves  available  to 
them  around  the  clock." 


"I  feel  that  the  same  rate 
of  recidivism  might  have 
been  achieved  if  the  same 
concentration  and  attention 
were  given  to  any  parolee 
by  highly  placed  members 
in  any  community." 

00 


oners  came  and  held  his  hand  and  guided  him 
through.  Dr.  Presnell  would  check  in  every  now 
and  then,  walk  around  the  room  like  a  dainty, 
graceful  cat,  not  saying  much,  but  taking  it  all  in. 
And  the  guards  came  in  bringing  metal  trays  of 
food  which  we  all  looked  at  with  disbelief,  the  way 
you'd  look  at  a  plate  of  worms  or  a  pot  of  sawdust 
served  up  to  you  on  a  plate,  and  someone  said, 
Man,  do  they  call  that  food?  Since  we  Harvard 
people  weren't  allowed  to  eat  prison  food  at  the 
expense  of  the  state,  Dr.  Presnell  went  out  and  got 
milkshakes  and  sandwiches  which  we  all  shared, 
and  we  had  never  tasted  food  so  good. 

Then  at  five  o'clock,  there  was  a  bang  on  the 
door,  and  we  opened  it  and  the  guards  came  in  and 
said,  Time  is  up,  men.  Back  to  the  prison  ward. 
Ralph,  Gunther,  and  I  went  with  the  five  prisoners 
back  to  the  lockup  part  of  the  hospital  and  sat  there 
on  beds,  and  smoked,  and  laughed,  and  compared 
notes  on  what  we'd  seen,  and  where  we'd  been. 
Then  it  was  time  for  us  to  go.  We  shook  hands,  said 
we'd  be  back  tomorrow,  and  Ralph  and  Gunther 
and  I  walked  out  of  the  prison,  across  the  dark 
yard,  rang  the  bell,  and  waited  until  the  iron  doors 
opened  into  the  guardroom,  and  then  across  the 
guardroom,  through  the  two  metal  doors,  and 
down  the  metal  stairs,  past  the  clanking,  steaming, 
old-fashioned  radiators,  and  then  we  were  outside. 
Ralph  and  Gunther  got  into  their  car  and  drove 
back  to  Cambridge,  and  I  got  in  my  car  and  drove 
to  Newton. 

As  I  rode  along  the  highway,  the  tension  and  the 
drama  of  the  day  suddenly  snapped  off  and  I  could 
look  back  and  see  what  we  had  done.  Nothing,  you 
see,  is  secret  in  a  prison,  and  the  eight  of  us  who 
had  assembled  to  take  drugs  together  in  a  prison 
were  under  the  microscopic  gaze  of  every  convict  in 
the  prison  and  every  guard,  and  within  hours  the 
word  would  have  fanned  through  the  invisible  net- 
work to  every  other  prison  in  the  state.  Grim  Wal- 
pole  penitentiary.  Gray,  sullen-walled  Norfolk. 

Did  you  hear?  Some  Harvard  professors  gave  a 
new  drug  to  some  guys  at  Concord.  They  had  a 


March  1961  00    189 


ball.  It  was  great.  It's  a  grand  thing.  It's  something 
new.  Hope.  Maybe.  Hope.  Perhaps.  Something 
new.  We  sure  need  something  new.  Hope. 


revolution.  On  your  own  day 

You  are  believed. 

Supreme  success, 

Furthering  through  perseverance. 

Remorse  disappears. 

(IChing) 


o 


And  the  Prisoners  Will  Become  Priests : 

H 
X 
W 

Q 

O 

z 

< 

n 

H 
en 

Spring  1961  dd 

Guides ;       jim  berrigan,  don  sainten  S 

Oracle:  XIII  X 

Fellowship  with  Men  H 


The  Creative,  Heaven 


The  Clinging,  Flame 


Heaven  together  with  fire: 
The  image  of  fellowship  with  men. 
Thus  the  superior  man  organizes  the  clans 
And  makes  distinctions  between  things. 

(Idling) 


TRIP  10 


Prisoner  Trip  Report  #1 : 

My  experience  while  under 
psilocybin  was  so  much 
more  than  I  expected.  To 
begin  with  I  was  completely 
unprepared  for  what  was  to 
happen,  what  changes  were 
to  take  place  in  my  beliefs, 
re-evaluating  myself  to  the 
point  of  nothingness. 


My  whole  way  of  life  was  so 
transparent  while  under 
psilocybin,  that  coming  out 
from  under  the  mushroom, 
I  was  in  a  deep  state  of 
shock.  I  use  deep  shock 
figuratively.  This  thirst  for 
knowledge  I  had  ...  is 
.  .  .  was  ...  it  seems  so 
meaningless  now.  More  so 
because  I  was  applying  it 
to  some  abstract  idea,  some 
complicated  intrigue  of  my 
own. 


As  to  my  first  awareness  of 
my  real  self,  it  was  when 
my  conversing  partner, 
Smithy,  was  searching  for 
a  complicated  word  in  re- 
gards to  something  that 
needed  a  very  simple  word. 
It  was  then  this  idea  flashed 
thru  my  mind,  could  it  pos- 
sibly be  that  what  I  was 
looking  for  is  so  very  simple 
also.  And  then  to  my  utter 
amazement,  I  realized  I 
wasn't  fighting  the  world, 
I  was  fighting  myself. 


The  first  psychedelic  session  at  the  prison  set  up 
powerful  repercussions. 

First  there  was  the  effect  on  the  little  group  of 
voyagers.  Strong  bonds  had  developed.  We  had 
been  through  the  ordeal  together.  We  had  gone 
beyond  the  games  of  Harvard  psychologist  and 
convict.  We  had  stripped  off  social  facade  and 
faced  fear  together  and  we  had  trusted  and 
laughed. 

I  felt  at  home  in  the  prison.  It  always  works  this 
way  after  a  good  trip.  You  die  and  then  you  are 
reborn.  The  place  of  your  rebirth  is  home.  This  is 
not  metaphorical— it  is  a  neurological  reality. 

During  the  psychedelic  session  the  nervous  sys- 
tem returns  to  that  state  of  flux  and  unity-chaos  of 
infancy— and  spins  beyond  familiar  time-space 
where  there  is  no  home  because  all  is  a  two-billion- 
year  process  of  homing.  As  the  session  ends,  one  is 
reborn  ( smoothly  or  with  a  jolt ) .  This  is  the  period 
of  reentry— the  return  from  space  to  the  planet. 
That  place  to  which  you  return  becomes  neurologi- 
cally  engraved  in  your  subsequent  consciousness. 
It  is  a  new  "home"— a  new  neurological  center.  In 
scientific  papers  we  described  this  as  the  process  of 
re-imprinting.  A  rewiring  of  the  nervous  system. 

There  is  a  strong  biochemical  attachment  to  the 
people,  the  objects,  the  scents  and  sights,  of  the 
place  to  which  you  return.  This  accounts  for  the 
LSD  cult  phenomenon. 

In  our  case  the  hospital  room  of  the  prison  had 
become  a  center.  A  home.  It  was  wired  into  my 
head. 

The  morning  after  the  session,  driving  back  to 
the  prison  was  like  going  back  to  some  sacred  place 
in  my  skull. 

Meeting  the  prisoners  was  like  a  family  reunion. 

Our  status  in  the  prison  was  changed.  Glances  of 
192 


Spring  1961   00    193 


respect  and  interest.  Prisoners  approached  us  as  we 
walked  across  the  yard  to  ask  if  they  could  sign  up 
for  the  mushrooms.  Guards  and  parole  officers 
stopped  us  to  ask  questions  or  to  request  that  a 
favorite  prisoner  be  admitted  to  the  psychedelic 
group. 

We  spent  the  next  two  weeks  discussing  the 
reports  that  the  prisoners  wrote  and  comparing 
notes  on  the  trip.  Then  we  ran  a  second  session. 
This  time  the  prisoners  were  more  sophisticated. 
There  was  no  sitting  around  on  chairs  in  nervous 
anticipation.  As  soon  as  the  energy  began  to  radiate 
through  their  bodies  they  headed  for  the  cot,  fell- 
out,  and  closed  their  eyes.  For  the  next  two  or  three 
hours  they  lay  engulfed  in  the  visions,  occasionally 
sitting  up  to  smile  or  make  some  Zen  comment.  The 
Harvard  guides  changed  the  records  and  sat 
quietly,  watching  the  cellular  clocks  in  the  room 
whirring,  occasionally  approaching  the  voyagers,  a 
hand  on  the  shoulder,  a  smile,  the  cosmic  nod  of 
affirmation.  And  the  looks  of  wonder  and  sharing. 

Oh  Doc!  Amazing.  This  stuff  is  amazing. 

It's  all  always  amazing,  Tony.  Do  you  want  any- 
thing? 

Yeah,  Doc.  I'm  thirsty. 

I  brought  the  glass  of  water.  In  sitting  up,  Tony 
spilled  a  few  drops.  His  eyes  riveted  on  the  little 
wet  puddle  on  the  gray  blanket. 

Water,  he  said  wondering.  Life  and  water. 
Where  does  the  water  come  from,  Doc?  We  are 
water  creatures,  aren't  we?  Yeah,  my  body  is  the 
sea. 

Sometimes  the  microscopes  of  inner  vision 
focused  on  their  lives.  Jerry  huddled  under  his 
blanket  sobbing,  his  head  shaking  back  and  forth. 
Oh  Doc,  what  a  selfish  fool  I've  been!  My  family. 
Wasted  years.  Wasted  years.  Will  I  get  another 
chance,  Doc?  Can  I  go  back  and  try  it  again? 

Nine  in  the  fourth  place  means: 

He  climbs  up  on  his  wall;  HE  CANNOT  ATTACK. 

Good  fortune.  ( I  Ching  XIII ) 

It  keeps  going,  Jerry.  Every  moment  it  starts  all 
over  again. 


Should  I  retain  this  ethical 
position,  or  disregard  it  for 
the  present,  to  let  him  un- 
derstand and  see  how  much 
more  there  is  to  life,  than 
living  behind  these  walls  in 
a  state  of  mental  and  physi- 
cal stagnation. 


And  finally  he  came  to  the 
decision,  to  show  me  how 
much  I  was  missing  with 
just  the  be  feeling,  and  not 
being  there  feeling,  let  me 
expound  on  this  for  a  mo- 
ment. 


Smithy  asked  me  if  I  missed 
these  different  things  out- 
side of  prison,  that  he  and 
everyone  else  was  enjoy- 
ing, and  my  answer  was 
something  to  the  effect,  oh! 
But  I  have  these  same 
things  you  have,  by  just 
substituting  the  being  there 
feeling  with  the  be  feeling, 
then  he  asked  me  to  teach 
him  this  feeling,  because 
with  this  feeling,  Smithy  be- 
lieved he  would  be  able  to 
solve  the  many  problems  of 
mankind. 


The  possibility  of  saving  so 
much  money,  pain,  mis- 
takes, etc.,  seemed  to  him 
to  be  so  important,  and  to 
me  so  ridiculous,  that  I 
explained  to  him  that  he 
was  not  ready  yet,  and  to 
this  answer  he  became  so 
sad  and  unhappy,  that  I  ex- 
plained to  him  there  wasn't 
to  my  knowledge  anything 
to  take  the  place  of  the  be- 
ing there  feeling. 


194  00    The  Prisoners  Will  Become  Priests 


From  there  we  concen- 
trated on  communication 
with  the  lower  levels  of  in- 
telligence. Smithy's  idea 
was  to  find  a  way  to  plug 
into  their  minds  for  this 
knowledge  we  need  to  at- 
tain— this  high  pinnacle  of 
knowledge,  and  Smithy,  be- 
lieving if  we  were  the  su- 
perior minds,  wasn't  it  up 
to  us  to  find  a  way  of  com- 
municating with  them,  and 
not  they  with  us. 


But  I  disagreed,  I  believed 
we  should  first  reach  this 
high  level  of  knowledge, 
and  then  if  we  have  any 
desire  to  learn  what  they 
have,  fine,  if  not  it  wouldn't 
make  any  difference  any- 
way. But  as  usual  Smithy's 
clear  and  logical  mind  took 
over,  he  showed  me  how 
much  fuel  could  be  used 
from  each  man's  mind 
along  the  way.  And  I  agreed 
to  this  idea. 


So  in  summation,  we  found 
that  knowledge  alone  was 
meaningless,  knowledge 
must  have  fuel  from  these 
other  channels.  These 
everyday  pleasures,  the 
loves,  the  sadness,  the 
small  problems.  These  to- 
gether with  knowledge 
would  balance  out,  to  give 
man  the  proper  guide  in 
life,  without  them,  man 
would  become  hopelessly 
lost. 


We  arranged  the  room  in  sacred  design.  Incense. 
Candles.  The  convicts  would  lie  watching  the  flick- 
ering flame.  Outside  the  barred  windows  they 
could  see  the  prison  wall  and  the  guard  tower. 
Candlelight  and  the  flash  of  sunlight  on  the  guard- 
ing rifles. 

Why  are  there  prisons,  Doc?  What  are  we  doing 
here?  Wanted  men.  It's  insane,  Doc.  We're  all  in- 
sane. Us  cons  and  the  cops  and  the  guards.  How 
did  we  get  into  this? 

Each  session  was  a  cosmic  drama.  Confusion. 
Humor,  lots  of  laughter.  Olympian  multi-level  god 
laughter.  Loneliness.  Tears.  Terrors.  Suspicion. 
Trust. 

After  the  third  session  the  convicts  repeated  the 
personality  tests  to  measure  changes.  We  brought 
the  test  folders  into  the  hospital  room  and  handed 
them  to  the  inmates.  No  secrets.  We  explained  what 
the  tests  measured  and  what  the  results  meant. 

They  had  changed.  Showed  less  depression,  hos- 
tility, antisocial  tendencies,  more  energy,  responsi- 
bility, cooperation.  The  objective  indices  so  dear  to 
the  heart  of  the  psychologist  had  swung  dramatic- 
ally and  significantly  in  the  direction  of  increased 
mental  health. 

By  explaining  their  test  results  to  them  and 
letting  them  handle  their  own  test  scores,  we  were 
training  them  the  same  way  we  trained  Harvard 
graduate  students  in  psychodiagnostics.  To  learn 
what  the  test  meant.  How  they  were  changing.  The 
prisoners  were  becoming  psychologists. 

They  loved  it.  Fierce  debates  about  personality 
characteristics.  The  psychiatric  diagnostic  game  be- 
ing played  by  the  cons. 

After  a  few  weeks  of  discussion  we  planned  with 
the  inmates  the  continuation  of  research.  The  con- 
victs were  to  select  the  new  recruits  for  the  group. 
They  would  learn  how  to  administer  the  psycholog- 
ical tests.  They  would  give  the  orientation  lectures. 
They  would  run  the  project. 

Here  the  reconciliation  that  follows  quarrel  moves 
nearer.  It  is  true  that  there  are  still  dividing  walls 
on  which  we  stand  confronting  one  another.  But 
the  difficulties  are  too  great.  We  get  into  straits,  and 


Spring  1961   00    195 


this  brings  us  to  our  senses.  We  cannot  fight,  and 
therein  lies  our  good  fortune.  ( I  Ching  XIII ) 

At  this  point  we  ran  into  prison  politics.  The 
social  structure  of  a  prison  is  like  any  village.  There 
is  a  very  explicit  hierarchy.  The  inmates  themselves 
run  the  prison.  All  the  guards  and  administrators 
do  is  keep  the  peace,  but  the  gut,  muscle,  moment- 
to-moment  space-time  issues  are  determined  by 
prisoners. 

The  inmates  belong  to  invisible  social  clans  and 
the  clan  leader  decides  what  happens.  If  the  warden 
and  guards  violate  the  dignity  and  prerogatives  of 
the  convict  leaders  there  is  trouble.  And  all  admin- 
istrators want  to  avoid  trouble. 

One  day  when  we  walked  into  the  hospital  there 
were  two  new  inmate  medical  attendants.  They 
were  men  in  their  forties.  Tough,  proud,  hard  cus- 
tomers. 

They  walked  up  to  me.  Doctor  Leary,  I'm  Jim 
Berrigan.  This  is  Don  Sainten.  We'd  like  to  talk  to 
you. 

Fine,  but  I'm  late  for  the  project  meeting.  Maybe 
later. 

No.  The  meeting  can  wait.  Let's  talk  now.  I 
looked  at  them  closely.  They  were  men  of  confi- 
dence and  dignity,  power-holders,  leaders.  Dress 
them  differently  and  they  could  be  sea  captains  or 
chief  surgeons  or  Broadway  promoters. 

I  nodded  and  they  motioned  me  down  the  hall. 
We  walked  into  the  hospital  kitchen.  I'd  never  been 
there  before.  Don  walked  to  the  stove  and  turned 
on  the  burner  under  a  coffee  pot.  Bacon  and  eggs, 
Doc?  No  thanks.  Coffee  will  do. 

Jim  and  Don  sat  on  the  high  serving  counter  and 
grinned.  We've  been  watching  this  mushroom  busi- 
ness, Doc,  and  it  looks  pretty  good  to  us  and  we've 
decided  to  join  your  project.  We'll  be  a  lot  of  help 
to  you.  We've  arranged  transfers  to  the  hospital  so 
we  can  be  right  on  call. 

The  words  were  cool  and  cocky  and  seemed  to 
leave  no  room  for  question. 

I  explained  that  the  decisions  about  who  joined 
the  project  were  made  by  the  convicts  in  the  group. 
I  couldn't  interfere  but  I'd  pass  their  names  on  to 
the  inmate  planning  group. 


The  most  sobering  effect 
the  mushroom  had  on  me, 
was  midway  in  our  conver- 
sation. I  asked  Smithy  if 
he  realized  that  we  had  not 
mentioned  God  once — 
Smithy's  answer  verbatim, 
(Have  we  done  anything 
else).  One  could  not  realize 
the  meaning  of  this  an- 
swer and  what  effect  it  had 
to  my  reasoning — unless 
one  understood  that  up  un- 
til Monday  I  believed  I  was 
much  more  than  I  turned 
out  to  be,  not  a  pretty  pic- 
ture for  one  to  witness  un- 
prepared. 


In  conclusion  I  must  state 
briefly,  that  I  enjoyed  the 
mushroom  on  one  hand,  but 
on  the  other  hand,  it 
frightened  me,  I  say  fright- 
ened, because  I  saw  my- 
self for  what  I  really  was, 
but  even  tho  this  picture 
was  seen  for  what  it  really 
was,  I  look  to  the  future 
with  enthusiasm,  and  to 
pursue  psilocybin  to  its  end. 


What  is  it  like  to  be  under 
psilocybin,  being  able  to 
see  colors  in  all  its  bril- 
liance and  absolute  splen- 
dor, it  is  by  all  means  an 
atmosphere  I  would  want 
to  be  in  all  the  time — able 
to  understand  myself,  mu- 
sic, and  what  it  means,  the 
feeling  one  gets  from  listen- 
ing to  such  superb  music 
as  classics. 


Actions  and  thinking  that  I 
have  done  before  are  being 
changed  to  a  more  mag- 
nificent and  truer  way; 
thoughts  have  come  to  me 
under  psilocybin  such  as 
past  manners  in  treating 
people  with  a  much  better 
attitude  and  respect. 


196  00    The  Prisoners  Will  Become  Priests 


This  has  taken  me  years  to 
do  and  so  after  all  these 
years  I  have  found  a  way, 
thru  the  help  of  psilocybin. 
It  has  helped  me  in  spelling 
and  reading.  I  remember 
when  I  couldn't  hold  ten 
words  in  my  head,  but  now 
I  have  words  like  antidises- 
tablishmentarianism  —  long 
— yes,  but  a  word  with  any 
accomplishment,  and  there 
are  others  I  am  seeking  to 
accomplish  in  accordance 
to  psilocybin. 


A  great  deal  of  the  pictures 
I  seen  were  transparent, 
clear  enough  to  see  and  un- 
derstand and  to  speak 
about  after  my  session.  It 
was  nice  to  experience. 


There  was  nothing  vicious 
about  my  two  experiences, 
nor  was  it  extravagent,  but 
it  was  extraordinary  and 
therefore  I  must  praise  and 
glorify  this  experience  and 
all  its  wonder.  It  explored 
my  mind  and  opened  up  a 
gate  that  has  been  closed 
for  a  long  time,  and  with 
this  acknowledgment  I  can 
keep  it  open  and  let  this 
memory  mellifluous  itself 
through  me  because  there 
is  no  need  to  be  menda- 
cious, dishonest.  It  is  time 
to  mend  that  which  is 
broken. 


Psilocybin  has  showed  me 
how  wrong  I  have  been  in 
my  disinclination,  I  now 
care  to  emulate,  strive  for 
the  better  things  in  life. 


Jim  and  Don  grinned.  I  don't  think  that  those 
guys  will  give  us  any  static,  Doc,  we  usually  get 
what  we  want  around  here.  Don't  we,  Don? 

Don  nodded.  There  was  muscle  and  hard  prick 
behind  the  words. 

I  liked  them  and  had  to  respect  them.  And  it  was 
more  politics.  Dealing  with  the  powers  that  be.  I 
grinned  and  said,  I'm  pleased  that  you're  inter- 
ested. It's  a  new  and  good  thing  we're  doing  and  it 
works.  It's  also  fun.  I  hope  you'll  join  us. 

When  I  mentioned  to  our  planning  group  that 
Jim  and  Don  had  volunteered  there  was  an  uneasy 
ripple,  and  murmurs  about  who  exactly  is  in 
charge,  and  I  thought  the  project  was  going  to  be 
democratic. 

By  democratic  we  mean  that  we  should  run  it, 
n*ght? 

We  had  already  run  into  some  problems  of 
power  and  authority  in  turning  our  decisions  over 
to  the  convicts.  The  intoxicating  taste  of  command. 
Two  of  the  inmates  had  thrown  themselves  into  the 
doctor-psychologist  role  with  great  energy  and  had 
developed  pompous  professional  facades  in  dealing 
with  their  "clients."  They  tended  to  be  fussy  and 
schoolmasterly  punitive.  The  other  cons  didn't  like 
it. 

And  everyone  was  uneasy  about  Jim  and  Don 
coming  into  the  project.  They  were  big  men  in  the 
prison.  They  were  boss  cons.  They'll  take  over. 

Hey,  wait  a  minute.  If  they  come  into  the  project 
they'll  have  to  take  the  mushrooms. 

There  was  a  thoughtful  silence  and  then  every- 
one began  to  laugh. 

And  if  they  take  the  drug  they'll  flip  out  of  their 
minds  and  beyond  the  game  of  being  boss  convicts. 
Right?  And  they'll  be  stripped  naked  like  everyone 
else.  And  they'll  come  back  changed  like  the  rest  of 
us. 

If  the  mushrooms  really  work,  if  they  produce 
insight  and  love,  then  they'll  work  for  Jim  and  Don. 
Yeah,  and  for  the  guards  too.  Let's  invite  the  screws 
to  turn-on. 

So  it  was  agreed  that  Don  and  Jim  could  join  the 
group.  They  were  tested  and  listened  to  the  orien- 
tation talks  and  held  out  their  tough-guy  hands  one 
sunny  morning  to  receive  the  sacrament. 


198  00    The  Prisoners  Will  Become  Priests 


I  don't  know  of  any  other 
way  for  a  person  to  ease 
tension,  but  maybe  some 
could  try  a  hobby  or  listen 
to  music,  maybe  classical 
or  spiritual.  I  am  sure  that 
somewhere  along  these 
lines  you  will  find  peace  of 
mind. 


On  my  second  session, 
while  I  was  under  psilocy- 
bin  and  laying  in  bed  with 
the  covers  over  my  head,  a 
picture  came  into  view  as 
clear  as  I  have  ever  seen 
before,  and  this  was  of 
Christ  in  the  manger  with 
these  people  standing  and 
kneeling  by  his  side.  This 
picture  stayed  with  me  for 
a  few  moments,  and  then 
thousands  of  Christmas 
lights  came  into  view — dif- 
ferent shapes  and  forms 
and  designs  of  colors  that 
was  of  tremendous  bril- 
liance and  elegance. 


I  was  wondering  at  one 
point  if  I  was  living,  or  was 
this  heaven  that  I  had 
heard  so  much  about.  Be- 
ing able  to  experience 
these  things  have  made  me 
do  a  great  deal  of  think- 
ing in  rechanneling  my  life. 
One  must  come  a  long 
way  before  he  can  find  him- 
self and  I  really  hope  I 
have. 


I  also  have  now  a  great 
conception  of  classic  music 
whereas  one  time  I  would 
never  think  of  listening  to 
such  music. 


This  trip  was  being  guided  by  Gunther  Weil  and 
two  inmates  from  the  original  group. 

After  an  hour  Jimmy  Berrigan  started  to  show 
signs  of  distress.  Jimmy  was  one  of  the  hardest  men 
in  Massachusetts.  He  belonged  to  a  famous  Boston 
waterfront  gang— a  rugged,  violent  tribe.  Jimmy 
was  a  professional  outlaw.  Proud.  Touchy.  Cocky. 
A  man  whose  culture  and  whose  long  life  was 
totally  dedicated  to  strength,  bicep  control. 

And  now,  as  it  comes  to  all  men,  the  ultimate 
humiliation  was  coming  to  tough  Jimmy  in  a  sunlit 
room  in  the  hospital  ward  in  Concord  prison. 

Jimmy  suddenly  discovered  he  had  fallen  into  a 
trap.  He  had  bulled  his  way  into  the  project  to 
enhance  his  power  in  the  prison.  The  mushrooms 
were  good,  and  anything  good  in  the  prison  be- 
longed, by  tribal  custom,  to  Berrigan.  And  now  he 
lay  on  a  cot,  rendered  weak,  his  mind  spinning 
away,  his  control  slipping,  overwhelmed  by  a  thou- 
sand shadowy  cellular  faces  mocking  his  illusions  of 
strength. 

This  wasn't  what  he  expected.  This  was  a  differ- 
ent high  from  booze  and  bennies  and  happy  pills. 
He  had  fallen  into  a  diabolic  con  game  perpetrated 
by  Harvard  psychologists.  After  forty-five  years  of 
defiance  and  arrogance  Jimmy  was  fallen.  He  raged 
in  despair.  He  should  have  known  better  than  to 
trust  his  natural  enemies,  these  smooth-faced,  glib 
middle-class  professionals.  What  a  sucker  he  was  to 
fall  for  their  line,  to  forget  that  power  was  every- 
thing. To  let  them  slip  him  these  immobilizing 
pills. 

Well,  he'd  go  down  fighting.  He  tried  to  sit  up, 
but  his  body  was  a  tangle  of  pulsating  wires  and 
warm  liquids.  It  was  a  nice  feeling  but  he  felt 
strange  and  weak.  He  looked  around  'the  room 
which  was  alive  with  belted  radiance.  Where  were 
his  tormentors?  Ah,  there  was  Gunther,  young  pip- 
squeak kid  who  couldn't  hold  his  own  for  five 
seconds  in  a  barroom  brawl— now  smiling  at  him 
in  malevolent  triumph. 

He  motioned  for  Gunther  to  come  over  and  then 
fell  back  on  the  pillow. 

How  are  you  Jimmy? 

I'm  terrible,  I'm  dying.  Well  you  got  me,  you 
clever  bastard,  but  I'm  not  finished.  You  may  have 


Spring  1961   00    199 


me  but  my  brothers  and  my  gang  will  get  you  for 
this.  You'll  be  in  a  cement-bag  in  Boston  Harbor  in 
one  week. 

Gunther's  face  looked  blank.  Get  me  for  what? 

For  trapping  me  this  way,  you  smug  Harvard 
fink. 

Gunther  felt  a  flicker  of  fear.  He  was  turned-on 
too.  Visions  of  gangland  slayings.  Cruel,  implacable 
hoodlum  revenge.  How  did  he,  a  well-brought-up 
middle-class  Jewish  boy  with  good  school  grades 
get  himself  involved  in  this  scene  of  wickedness 
and  violence.  Because  of  the  mushrooms.  The  ec- 
stasy had  led  him  on.  He  had  been  warned  of  this. 
The  grim  Judeo-Christian  retribution.  You  pay  for 
your  bliss.  Now  he  was  paying  for  his  mushroom 
kicks.  He  looked  down  at  the  face  of  his  murderer, 
the  rugged,  waterfront  grimacing  features  of  this 
hood,  this  devil  Berrigan  whose  dread  retribution 
was  to  fall  on  him.  Thoughts  of  escape  flashed 
through  his  mind.  He  glanced  at  the  barred  win- 
dows. He  was  trapped  in  the  prison,  surrounded  by 
thugs  who  would  spring  to  the  command  of  the 
master  criminal. 

Tears  came  to  his  eyes.  What  a  tragedy,  to  be  cut 
down  in  his  promising  youth.  He  cursed  the  day  he 
had  even  listened  to  the  mushroom  song  and  all  the 
glib  psychedelic  teachings  which  sounded  so  good 
but  which  just  lured  you  into  the  void  of  hell. 

The  two  men  stood  transfixed  in  horror  and  hate. 
Slim  Harvard  and  grizzled  outlaw.  Caught  together 
in  some  cold  hopeless  whirlpool  of  cosmic  energy. 
Frightened  and  frightening  each  other.  Blaming 
each  other.  Man  hopelessly  isolated  from  man.  The 
other  men  in  the  room  watched  silently. 

Jimmy  snarled  again.  My  brother  will  kill  you  for 
this. 

How  can  they  kill  me,  Jimmy,  I'm  dying  right 
now. 

Dying.  Death.  Bebirth.  Some  long-forgotten  wire 
of  memory  flickered.  Death-rebirth.  Trust  the  pro- 
cess. Gunther  closed  his  eyes  and  the  words  came 
to  him.  The  prayer.  He  struggled  to  move  his  throat 
and  tongue,  and  then  the  words  came  out  quaver- 
ing, shaky,  a  strange  little  voice,  but  the  message 
was  there.  Jimmy  Berrigan  looked  up  in  disbelief. 
His    eyes    widened.    Then    he   understood.    From 


Psilocybin  has  a  way  of 
opening  up  the  mind  and 
letting  you  see  different 
pictures  and  gradually  you 
will  grasp  these  significants, 
and  use  them  as  they 
should  be  used. 

00 


Prisoner  Trip  Report  #2: 

I  feel  as  an  antiquarian 
does  while  searching  for 
ancient  relics — anticipation 
before  the  discovery — once 
discovered — the  journey  to 
make  known  what  is  un- 
known. I  find  there  isn't 
two  paths  any  longer,  but 
numerous  trails  to  follow. 


None  are  marked  in  any 
tangible  manner  or  form — 
the  senses  are  to  be  my 
guide. 


I  must  reject  the  colorless, 
barren,  unpopulated  roads 
— to  travel  into  the  world 
of  beauty,  the  sun,  the 
flowers,  fresh-fragrant  air — 
all  the  benefits  nature  has 
devised  for  the  use  of  man. 


I  can  do  no  less  since  the 
operation  was  successful 
(restoring  my  eyesight).  I 
have  traveled  long  in  the 
world  of  darkness,  shackled 
to  the  segregated  misfits. 


200  00    The  Prisoners  Will  Become  Priests 


The  overwhelming  desire  to 
tear  the  cloth  from  my  flesh, 
releasing  the  suffocating 
sinews  to  the  magical  beat 
of  primitive  drums. 


(The    sacred    dance 
cated  to  the  beyond.) 


dedi- 


I  am  looking  forward  to  my 
next  session,  as  a  child 
waits  for  someone  to  turn 
the  lights  on  in  the  heavens 
above. 


People  I  hated  for  no  sound 
reason,  I  have  come  to  love. 
The  lies  I've  told  force  me 
to  tell  the  truth  and  I  do 
not  find  that  it  hurts  as 
much  as  a  lie  does. 


I'm  satisfied  with  myself. 
I  know  that  this  is  a  new 
me.  I'll  always  be  looking 
to  see  if  there  is  a  better 
way  to  do  things  and  how. 


Believe  me,  I  consider  my 
being  here  the  most  im- 
portant factor  in  my  life  be- 
cause this  is  where  I  have 
come  to  know  the  meaning 
of  freedom  and  the  joys 
that  come  with  it.  Yes,  the 
road  has  been  a  hard  one 
and  many  tears  involved. 
The  going  is  easy  now  be- 
cause I  have  found  the  way 
to  the  end. 


somewhere  in  his  childhood,  his  Irish  genes,  his 
rugged  Celtic  past,  the  same  message  sparked. 

Jimmy  began  to  laugh.  Amazing.  Unbelievable. 
God  did  exist.  The  old  teachings  were  true.  Not  in 
the  stilted,  phony  effeminate  accents  of  the  Boston 
priesthood  whose  piety  he  despised,  but  in  the 
voice  which  sighed  and  breathed  in  his  cells. 

He  reached  up  and  grabbed  Gunther's  hand,  and 
their  eyes  met  in  a  smile.  And  the  session  reel 
spun  on. 

The  initiation  of  Jimmy  and  Don  increased  the 
feeling  of  centeredness  at  the  prison.  Coming  to 
Concord  was  like  returning  on  pilgrimage  to  a  holy 
place.  A  conspiracy  was  emerging.  We  started 
plotting  a  mass  prison  break. 

It  is  the  nature  of  fire  to  flame  up  to  heaven.  This 
gives  the  idea  of  fellowship.  Here,  clarity  is  within 
and  strength  without— the  character  of  a  peaceful 
union  of  men,  which,  in  order  to  hold  together, 
needs  one  yielding  nature  among  many  firm 
persons.  ( I  Ching  XIII ) 

The  name  of  the  game  was  keep-out.  We  agreed 
that  cops-and-robbers  was  ridiculous;  the  prisoner- 
guard  game  absurd.  The  perpetuation  of  these 
social  dances  depended  on  someone  willing  to  play 
the  part  of  the  criminal.  The  entire  top-heavy  ad- 
ministrative structure,  policemen,  detectives,  in- 
formers, lawyers,  district  attorneys,  judges,  pro- 
bation and  parole  officers,  guards,  wardens,  prison 
psychiatrists— all  were  dependent  on  the  hero-star- 
bad-guy  to  make  their  good-guy  parts  have  mean- 
ing. The  criminals  were  the  fall  guys,  the  victims 
who  kept  the  whole  game  going. 

The  solution  was  obvious.  The  prisoners  had  to 
turn-on,  see  the  game  the  way  it  was,  and  then 
drop-out.  Just  stop  playing  the  bad-boy  game.  See 
it,  laugh  at  it,  and  drop-out. 

So  we  made  a  contract.  .  .  .  Everyone  in  the 
group  would  do  everything  he  could  to  help  every 
member  get  out  and  stay  out  of  prison.  Not  just 
sessions  and  discussions  in  the  prison,  but  practical 
help  in  getting  out,  in  finding  a  job,  and  dealing 
with  life  on  the  outside. 


Spring  1961   00    201 


We  were  proposing  a  family,  clan- type  group. 
This  was  very  different  from  professional  bureau- 
cratic rehabilitation.  The  motto  of  the  rehabilitation 
worker  is  detachment.  Don't  get  emotionally  in- 
volved with  the  client.  You  will  be  seduced  or 
conned.  A  mass-assembly-line  rehabilitation  se- 
quence, in  which  the  psychologist  performs  his  tests 
and  turns  the  patient  over  to  the  psychiatrist,  who 
treats  the  patient  and  sends  him  cured  to  the  parole 
board,  which  decides  on  the  basis  of  its  own  criteria 
whether  to  allow  parole.  The  parolee  is  then  inves- 
tigated and  supervised  by  parole  officers.  Complete 
depersonalization  all  the  way  down  the  line. 

The  prisoner  is  treated  this  way  because  he 
comes  from  a  family  which  either  won't  or  can't 
help  him.  His  clan  has  been  fragmented.  He  is  an 
isolated  loner,  an  anonymous  cog  in  the  social 
machine. 

Our  strategy  was  exactly  opposite  to  the  de- 
tached professional  approach.  The  aim  was  to  build 
a  network  of  friends  who  would  help  each  other.  To 
construct  a  group  that  could  perform  some  of  the 
functions  of  the  tribe.  If  a  middle-class  person  gets 
in  trouble  he  is  typically  rescued  by  middle-class 
know-how  which  bails  him  out,  gets  him  a  lawyer, 
talks  middle-class  jargon  to  the  officials,  gets  him  a 
job,  provides  him  with  a  middle-class  home  to 
return  to. 

Our  plan  was  to  use  the  resources  of  our  group 
( including  middle-class  know-how )  to  weave  a  web 
of  protection  for  the  convicts. 


I've  been  thru  a  complete 
change  of  life,  an  experi- 
ence that  the  average  20- 
year-old  does  not  go  thru 
but  when  they  do  go  thru 
this  change,  the  better 
things  are  ahead. 


I  know  myself  in  such  a  way 
that  I  can  account  for  my 
thoughts  and  what  they 
mean  and  what  use  they 
will  be  put  to. 


Prison  can  lead  a  man 
down  to  nothing  in  a  very 
short  time.  There  were 
times  when  I  felt  myself 
slipping  and  filling  my  mind 
full  of  ideas  that  were  no 
good.  The  ideas  are  still 
there  but  only  as  a  guide  to 
show  me  that  I  cannot  af- 
ford to  make  a  life  of  crimi- 
nal doings. 


.  .  .  Said  Gandalf  .  .  .  Well,  let  folly  be  our  cloak, 
a  veil  before  the  eyes  of  the  Enemy!  For  he  is 
very  wise,  and  weighs  all  things  to  a  nicety.  .  .  . 
But  the  only  measure  that  he  knows  is  desire,  desire 
for  power;  and  so  he  judges  all  hearts. 

.  .  .  Said  Elrond  .  .  .  the  road  must  be  trod  but  it 
will  be  very  hard  .  .  .  this  quest  may  be  attempted 
by  the  weak  with  as  much  hope  as  the  strong. 
Yet  such  is  oft  the  course  of  deeds  that  move  the 
wheels  of  the  world:  small  hands  do  this  because 
they  must,  while  the  eyes  of  the  great  are  else- 
where. ( The  Lord  of  the  Rings ) 


Since  the  first  mushroom 
test,  my  thoughts  have  al- 
ways been  smooth  and 
more  wholesome  than  ever 
before. 


Nothing  seems  to  drive  me 
to  stubbornness  as  before. 


202  00   The  Prisoners  Will  Become  Priests 


I  have  come  a  long  way 
into  manhood  and  what  I 
see,  I  like.  What  can  be  bet- 
ter than  knowing  where  you 
are  going  and  how  you  are 
going  to  get  there. 


It's  pleasant  to  know  that 
your  mind  is  free  and  not 
being  guilty  of  unworthi- 
ness. 


I  want  to  be  at  peace  with 
the  world  and  have  it  at 
peace  with  me. 


Psilocybin  is  a  wonderful 
discovery  that  does  things 
that  nothing  else  could  do. 


Psilocybin  brings  out  the 
truth  of  all  around  you, 
those  concerning  you  and 
yourself.  The  answers  will 
be  yours.  But  will  you  use 
them? 


There  are  things  I  seen  but 
I  can't  think  of  all  of  them 
because  I  never  seen  things 
like  them  before.  I  can't  de- 
scribe them. 


The  project  moved  rapidly  into  action.  One  of  our 
members  was  coming  up  for  a  parole  hearing. 
Johnny  O'Connell,  a  genial  Irishman.  Johnny  was 
caught  by  the  standard  dilemma  of  the  lower-class 
convict.  In  order  to  be  paroled  he  needed  a  job  and 
home.  His  family  was  disintegrated,  helpless,  un- 
caring and  could  offer  no  home.  And  how  could  he 
get  a  job  when  he  was  uneducated,  untrained, 
socially  tarnished  and,  being  in  prison,  unable  to 
canvas  prospective  employers?  Unless  something 
was  done  he  would  meet  the  parole  board  and  be 
turned  back  for  another  year  of  incarceration  for 
the  crime  of  not  having  a  family,  a  tribal  group  to 
support  him. 

So  we  went  to  work.  First,  to  get  him  a  job. 
Johnny's  occupations  in  the  past  had  been  itinerant 
and  casual.  Dish  washer.  Handy  man.  Laborer.  We 
phoned  around  Boston  to  find  an  employer  who 
wanted  to  guarantee  steady  employment  to  a  dish- 
washing convict  who  was  guilty  of  a  few  bad 
checks  and  who  drank  now  and  then.  No  takers. 

For  a  week  I  spent  most  of  my  time  meeting  with 
restaurant  owners  and  managers  of  construction 
companies.  They  were  all  encouraging  but  no  one 
was  willing  to  sign  a  paper  guaranteeing  Johnny  a 
job. 

Then  we  thought  of  the  home-base  solution.  Har- 
vard University  was  one  of  the  largest  businesses  in 
Cambridge.  Dozens  of  dining  halls.  We  visited  the 
Harvard  employment  office.  There  the  officials  were 
most  sympathetic.  Their  interest  led  them  to  visit 
the  prison.  They  listened  attentively  to  the  discus- 
sion about  sessions  and  in  return  gave  brief  lectures 
about  hard  work,  honesty,  and  responsibility.  But 
for  Johnny  there  was  no  help  because  the  month 
was  May  and  the  Harvard  dining  halls  closed  for 
the  summer. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  hire  Johnny  our- 
selves. Take  him  into  the  family  business.  A  letter 
was  written  on  the  stationery  of  the  Harvard 
Center  for  Personality  Research,  guaranteeing  him 
a  job  on  our  project.  We  located  a  room  in  Cam- 
bridge, paid  the  rent,  and  Johnny  had  a  home. 

With  these  documentary  testaments  to  middle- 
class  support,  Johnny  was  released.  Our  first  recon- 
verted man  was  on  the  streets. 


Spring  1961   00    203 


When  he  reported  to  work  for  the  research  proj- 
ect, his  first  assignment  was  to  find  himself  a 
job— and  to  keep  diary  notes  of  his  job-hunting. 

At  five  o'clock  each  afternoon  he  would  return  to 
the  center  with  his  report.  The  only  jobs  he  could 
get  were  in  large  downtown  cafeterias  where  he 
would  be  allowed  to  join  that  anonymous  army  of 
gray-faced,  dead-eyed,  muscatel-drinking  drifters 
who  clear  dishes  off  tables  and  mop  floors  today 
and  are  gone  tomorrow  to  the  drunk-tank.  Such  a 
job  was  guaranteed  to  push  him  into  alcoholism. 

And  every  day  at  five-thirty  Johnny  would  leave 
our  office  and  go  to  his  rented  room,  anonymous 
body  on  an  impersonal  bed  in  a  strange  chamber. 
The  bars  had  TV  and  warmth  and  companionship. 

For  two  weeks  he  continued  to  search,  made 
endurable  by  the  support  of  the  graduate  students 
who  hung  out  in  the  project  office  (at  least  there 
were  some  people  who  knew  and  cared ) .  And  then 
came  a  job  as  apprentice  baker  in  a  pizza  parlor.  It 
was  a  small  shop  where  he  would  be  known  by 
everyone,  where  he  would  be  a  person. 

When  Johnny  came  back  from  work  the  first 
evening,  we  all  listened  to  his  description  of  the 
place,  what  the  girl  cashier  looked  like,  what  the 
boss  said  to  him,  what  his  duties  were. 

We  passed  the  story  on  to  the  cons  at  the  prison, 
and  they  listened  carefully  to  all  the  details. 

There  was  still  the  bad  business  of  Johnny  living 
by  himself  and  having  no  friends.  The  only  thing 
that  he  could  do  after  work  was  hang  out  in  the 
bar.  This  was  expensive.  It  was  also  dangerous- 
leading  to  hangovers  and  oversleeping. 

But  Johnny  didn't  know  any  other  way  of  spend- 
ing time  or  money.  Free  dollars  and  free  hours 
automatically  went  to  the  saloon.  The  ideas  of 
saving  money,  of  purchasing  anything  except  im- 
mediate essentials,  of  taking  a  vacation,  of  planning 
a  career  were  as  foreign  to  Johnny  as  to  an  Austra- 
lian bushman.  Middle-class  behavior  was  as  far 
removed  from  his  experience  as  life  on  Mars. 

So  let's  emigrate  Johnny  to  Mars.  Let's  expose 
him  to  the  day-to-day  routine  of  middle-class  Amer- 
ican life  where  he  could  learn  by  observation. 
Johnny  moved  into  my  house,  into  the  third-floor 
attic  that  Bill  Burroughs  had  just  vacated. 


There  is  one  time  I  remem- 
ber falling  upward  towards 
a  mass  of  designs  and  it 
was  all  different  colors  or 
lights.  It  may  sound  nutty 
but  I  was  there. 


I  see  other  human  beings 
in  a  different  light.  I  seem 
to  place  everyone  on  an 
equal  level.  Regardless  of 
race,  creed,  or  color  and 
education. 


I  have  never  found  it  dif- 
ficult to  talk  with  most 
people.  However,  after  the 
mushroom  experience  I  find 
it  much  easier. 


What  can  it  do  for  others? 
I  don't  know.  I  will  say  this 
however,  if  the  mushroom 
leaves  the  same  impression 
on  others  as  it  has  on  me, 
then  I  suggest  that  every- 
one should  be  confronted 
with  its  virtues. 


204  00    The  Prisoners  Will  Become  Priests 


The  main  thing  I  received 
from  my  first  experience 
with  mushrooms,  was  to 
look  at  myself  and  the  en- 
tire human  race  from  a  dif- 
ferent angle.  One  of  friend- 
liness and  sincerity.  Not 
what  I  can  do  everyone  out 
of — but  what  I  can  do  for 
them  and  with  them.  I  hope 
to  find  deeper  and  clearer 
meanings  to  these  other 
things  the  next  time  I  take 
the  mushroom.  .  .  . 


By  nature,  I  am  a  very  rest- 
less person.  Always  want- 
ing to  move.  Yes,  I  would 
even  go  as  far  as  to  say 
wanderlust.  I  couldn't  sit 
still  if  someone  was  talking 
to  me  and  most  of  the  time 
it  would  bore  me  to  listen 
to  them  talk.  Since  the 
mushroom,  I  don't  feel  that 
way.  I  seem  to  be  more  re- 
laxed. Less  impatient.  I 
want  to  listen  and  I  don't 
want  to  be  moving  around. 
To  get  away  from  the  things 
around  me,  now,  seems  to 
have  vanished. 


Then  I  was  scared.  I  thought 
someone  had  pulled  a  trick 
on  me  and  the  little  man 
disappeared.  I  thought  to 
myself,  someone  has 
dubbed  the  record  with 
their  voice,  someone  who 
I  don't  know,  someone  very 
clever  in  his  trickery.  Some- 
one wanted  to  hypnotize 
me,  make  me  the  living, 
speaking  dead.  Then  I  real- 
ized that  I  had  seen  this 
little  green  man  before  in 
my  last  trip. 


Johnny  was  a  congenial  householder.  Jolly  with 
kids.  Easy  with  adults.  He'd  come  home  from  work 
every  night  about  midnight  and  have  a  beer  and 
tell  us  about  the  pizza  parlor. 

When  the  parole  officer  would  drop  around  to 
make  his  surprise  visits,  the  fibers  of  the  house 
braced  in  empathetic  protection.  We  were  all  mem- 
bers of  a  benign  conspiracy  to  keep  Johnny  out  of 
jail.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  a  home  and 
a  protective  family. 

But  the  price  was  expensive.  It  took  commitment, 
caring,  concern,  sharing.  An  emotional  thing  that 
can't  be  taught  in  the  professional  schools  or  ob- 
tained by  voting  large  appropriations  for  criminal 
rehabilitation. 

Back  in  prison  the  program  went  on.  Psychedelic 
trips,  two  or  three  a  week.  Moments  of  confronta- 
tion. Moments  of  terror.  Moments  of  joy. 

We  were  using  the  prison  as  a  training  center. 
The  convicts  were  learning  how  to  guide  psyche- 
delic drug  sessions.  Harvard  graduate  students 
were  coming  to  go  through  the  program  themselves. 
There  was  less  distinction  between  psychologists 
and  inmates.  The  new  Harvards  were  assigned  to 
veteran  inmates  for  orientation  and  guidance. 

In  session  after  session  the  inmates  guided  the 
Harvards,  and  the  Harvards  guided  the  convicts. 

The  energy  generated  by  the  sessions  continued 
to  spill  out  beyond  the  prison  walls.  The  psilocybin 
session  room  became  a  show  place.  Whenever  visi- 
tors came  to  Cambridge  inquiring  about  psyche- 
delic drugs,  we  took  them  out  to  the  prison.  The 
convicts  sat  around  the  table  giving  lectures  on 
their  mystic  experiences  to  Gerald  Heard  and  Alan 
Watts  and  Aldous  Huxley  and  the  ex-King  of  Sara- 
wak and  coveys  of  visiting  psychiatrists. 

The  instinctive  strategy  was  to  do  everything 
possible  to  enhance  self-esteem,  pride,  and  sense  of 
accomplishment.  Every  power  we  could  turn  over 
to  the  convicts  was  a  fiber  in  the  body  of  growth  we 
were  constructing. 

As  in  any  tribe  there  were  sectors  of  friction, 
resentment,  and  disappointments. 

Johnny  O'Connell  lost  his  job  when  the  pizza 
parlor  went  out  of  business.  For  a  few  days  he 


206  00   The  Prisoners  Will  Become  Priests 


The  last  Indian  record  came 
on  and  I  closed  my  eyes, 
nothing,  no  color,  nothing 
at  all.  I  opened  my  eyes 
and  felt  very  dizzy,  so  I 
closed  my  eyes  again.  All 
of  a  sudden  a  vision  came 
unto  me.  Waver  of  sound, 
strings  waving  with  sound, 
the  music  its  very  strings 
danced  before  me.  The 
strings  were  gold,  bright 
and  brilliant. 


A  voice  came  from  the 
strings  mystical  and  God- 
like in  its  tone,  precise  in 
its  pronunciation,  faraway 
and  abstract  in  its  meaning 
to  me.  Then  I  saw  the  little 
green  man  again,  emerald 
green,  robe  about  him,  long 
legs  and  arms  wrapped 
about  himself,  bald  head 
shining  with  light,  long  thin 
ears,  bright  green  eyes,  sly 
wide  grinning  mouth.  He 
had  gold  earrings  in  his 
ear,  long,  thin  eyebrows 
and  darker  and  a  little 
beard  growing  from  his 
chin.  He  spoke  of  the  mu- 
sic, of  the.  very  strings  he 
sat  upon. 


looked  for  a  new  job  and  then  he  took  to  sitting 
around  the  house  watching  television  and  drinking 
beer  all  day.  We  tried  LSD.  Heavier  and  heavier 
doses,  with  no  results.  Johnny  always  treated  psy- 
chedelics  with  the  bravado  of  the  Olympic  booze 
champion.  I  can  outdrink  any  man  in  the  house. 
His  pride  was  to  prove  he  could  take  more  and 
more  sacrament  without  passing  out. 

So  one  afternoon  we  gave  him  five  times  the 
normal  dose  of  LSD.  Johnny  flipped  out  of  his 
mind  and  spun  up  to  heaven.  He  raved  about  the 
beauty.  He  laughed  with  joy.  He  saw  it  all. 

How  do  you  like  heaven,  Johnny? 

The  answer  was  straight  one-hundred-proof 
Irish.  Tell  God  he's  flubbed  his  job,  Doc,  there's  no 
beer  joint  in  heaven. 

So  we  bundled  up  in  overcoats  to  take  Johnny  to 
a  bar.  We  thought  he  might  see  through  the  booze 
scene.  He  walked  into  the  bar  with  bravado,  but  it 
was  too  much  for  him.  The  bottles  leered  and 
mocked.  Gotta  get  the  hell  out  of  here. 

Later  that  night  he  went  back  to  the  bar,  ordered 
a  beer,  and  turned  to  the  man  next  to  him.  Mister, 
you'll  never  believe  where  I  went  today  and  what  I 
saw.  The  man  next  to  him  didn't  believe  him. 
Neither  did  Johnny.  The  next  day  he  was  back  to 
TV  and  beer.  My  irritation  grew  but  Johnny 
couldn't  be  moved.  I  gave  him  a  week  to  find  a  job 
and  then  I  gave  him  fifty  dollars  and  told  him  he 
was  on  his  own. 

In  two  weeks  he  was  back  in  prison— not  for 
crime,  because  Johnny  wasn't  a  criminal,  but  for 
idleness  and  beering. 

By  the  fall  of  1962  we  had  over  thirty-five  con- 
victs and  fifteen  Harvards  in  the  group.  And  the 
men  started  being  paroled  out  to  the  streets  two 
and  three  a  month. 


True  fellowship  among  men  must  be  based  on  a 
concern  that  is  universal.  It  is  not  the  private 
interests  of  the  individual  that  create  lasting  fellow- 
ship among  men,  but  rather  the  goals  of  humanity. 
That  is  why  it  is  said  that  fellowship  with  men  in 
the  open  succeeds.  ( I  Ching  XIII ) 


Spring  1961   00    207 


We  started  project  contact.  The  ex-cons  and  the 
Harvards  were  signed  up  in  buddy-system  teams  to 
visit  the  ex-cons  in  their  homes.  We'd  drive  around 
the  slum  areas  of  Brockton,  Fall  River,  Worcester, 
looking  for  our  man.  Then  we'd  go  out  and  have  a 
beer  and  find  out  how  he  was  doing.  There  was  a 
twenty-four-hour  telephone  to  rush  help  in  case  of 
emergencies. 

Maxwell  found  himself  broke,  his  wife  leaving 
him,  and  ready  to  knock  over  a  store  in  rage  and 
frustration.  He'd  phone  our  number  and  someone 
would  drive  over  to  meet  him  and  spend  an  hour 
talking  to  him  in  an  all-night  cafeteria  and  lend  him 
ten  dollars.  We  bailed  them  out  of  jail,  sobered 
them  up,  hid  them  from  the  parole  officer,  cooled 
out  angry  bosses.  We  did  in  short  what  the  family 
does  for  its  confused  members.  And  we  kept  them 
out  of  jail. 

By  this  time  operation  Keep-Out  had  become  a 
three-ring  circus.  There  was  the  prison.  There  was 
the  outside  contact  project  and  there  was  the  less 
visible  but  equally  important  task  of  keeping  the 
state  administrators  and  officials  happy.  We  kept  a 
steady  flow  of  memoranda  and  progress  reports  to 
the  myriad  departments  which  focus  a  jealous  eye 
on  the  work  of  rehabilitating  criminals. 

It  was  clear  to  us  that  if  a  week  went  by  without 
contacting  the  bureaucrats,  clewing  them  in,  mak- 
ing them  a  part  of  the  game,  the  whistle  would  be 
blown  on  our  game. 

What  we  were  doing  was  highly  implausible 
from  the  administrative  point  of  view.  Week  after 
week  for  two  years  we  ran  ecstasy  sessions  in  a 
state  prison— turning-on  with  the  prisoners,  turning- 
on  visiting  psychiatrists.  We  had  converted  the 
hospital  ward  into  a  spiritual  center  complete  with 
incense  candles  and  music. 

We  did  this  with  the  approval  of  the  most  skepti- 
cal, wary  group  of  politician-pros  on  the  American 
scene— cops,  jailers,  and  parole  officials.  Our  key 
was  direct  human  contact.  I  spent  one-third  of  my 
time  in  face-to-face  interaction  with  the  state  offi- 
cials. We  invited  them  to  the  prison.  We  spent  long 
hours  over  the  lunch  table,  long  hours  driving  to 


I  could  only  see  part  of  his 
face,  a  small  pointed  beard 
covered  his  cheeks  and 
chin,  his  eyes  glowed  with 
a  yellow  light  and  his  nose 
was  long  and  thin.  He 
seemed  to  be  speaking  but 
I  could  not  hear  him. 
Maybe  he  was  praying.  I 
spoke  to  him,  "Hey  man, 
what  are  you  doing  here.  I 
know  you.  I  saw  you  before 
on  a  mountain."  No  answer. 
I  could  not  help  talking 
jive  talk,  abstract  words. 
Then  the  vision  disap- 
peared and  did  not  return. 


A  criminal,  at  least  myself 
and  most  all  I've  ever  met, 
were  either  unloved  chil- 
dren or  lost  individuals. 
Lost  between  right  and 
wrong.  What  they  wanted 
and  the  means  to  it.  They 
knew  their  ends,  power, 
wealth,  money  could  not 
buy  friends,  loved  ones, 
happiness,  beauty,  intelli- 
gence. I  saw  how  foolish 
the  game  I  played  was.  Just 
saw  thru  it,  saw  the  ends  I 
would  find,  instead  of  the 
ends  I'd  imagined.  It  sick- 
ened me. 


What  was  life,  a  life  of  this 
kind,  just  misery  for  myself 
and  those  who  loved  me. 


208  00    The  Prisoners  Will  Become  Priests 


I  again  asked  what  I  wanted 
from  life  and  at  once  I  got 
an  answer — love,  peace, 
plenty,  intelligence,  not 
power,  but  friends. 


I  reached  the  top.  There 
was  the  same  rock,  the  soft- 
ness of  it  is  still  here.  On 
this  rock  was  a  man.  A  man 
both  young  and  old.  He  had 
about  his  slim  body  a  liquid 
robe  of  the  bluest  blue.  He 
had  his  hands  folded  in  his 
lap. 


His  fingers  seemed  to  glow. 
They  were  long  and  bony 
and  his  hands  seemed  slim 
and  fine.  He  was  looking 
into  the  sky  and  did  not 
hear  me.  He  had  long, 
womanlike  hair,  smooth 
and  shiny  and  black,  coal 
black. 


It  has  a  way  that  moves  me 
and  relaxes  me  and  through 
this  relaxation  I  find  myself 
in  a  much  better  atmos- 
phere, and  also  put  myself 
into  better  environment, 
which  in  the  future  will 
prove  how  great  psilocybin 
really  is. 


the  state  house  and  to  the  probation  headquarters. 
A  lunch  at  the  Harvard  Faculty  Club  for  the  Com- 
missioner of  Correction  and  his  top  lieutenants. 
Sharing  of  space-time.  Caring  for  them,  caring  for 
their  opinions  and  for  their  approval. 

We  even  ran  sessions  for  parole  officers  and 
correction  officials.  Some  of  them  had  unhappy 
trips.  People  committed  to  external  power  are 
frightened  by  the  release  of  ecstasy  because  the  key 
is  surrender  of  external  power.  One  chief  parole 
officer  flipped-out  paranoid  at  my  house  and  ac- 
cused us  of  a  Communist  conspiracy  and  stormed 
around  while  Madison  Presnell  curled  up  on  the 
couch  watching,  amused  at  the  white  folks  franti- 
cally learning  how  to  get  high.  He  grinned  at  me.  So 
you  call  it  the  love  drug? 

But  the  next  day  the  parole  officer  looked  back  at 
where  he  had  been  and  his  voice  shook  in  reverence. 

The  administrators  let  the  project  go  on  for  the 
same  reason  that  administrators  do  anything— fear 
of  criticism.  Our  work  was  succeeding  and  the 
prisoners  knew  it.  Not  just  the  inmates  at  Concord 
but  all  over  the  state.  The  politicians  had  to  go 
along  with  it. 

Harvard  was  backing  the  project  and  Harvard 
couldn't  be  flouted.  But  there  was  an  underlying 
skepticism.  A  basic  distrust  about  any  enthusiastic 
new  approach  to  prisoner  rehabilitation.  Let  them 
try  their  newfangled  experiment,  but  the  old  hands 
knew  that  cons  are  cons  and  nothing  can  change 
them. 

In  politics  and  administration  the  great  sin  is 
idealism,  bright-eyed  vigor— and  the  highest  virtue 
is  cynicism.  Faith,  hope,  and  charity  are  dirty 
words.  Nothing  really  changes  except  who  has  the 
power,  who  has  the  money. 

Everyone  in  the  Massachusetts  correctional  sys- 
tem believed  in  his  heart  that  our  project  would 
fail.  That  we  would  not  lower  the  recidivism  rate, 
that  we  could  not  convert  hardened  criminals.  We 
just  couldn't  do  it  because  we  were  running  against 
the  cultural  momentum  of  American  society  which 
is  more  laws,  more  cops,  more  lawyers,  more 
judges,  more  prison  psychiatrists,  more  control,  and 
we  were  saying:  give  power  away. 

If  we  were  right,  then  the  sphincter  clasp  of 


Spring  1961   00    209 


society  would  have  to  be  released.  Deep  religious 
commitments  were  involved  in  the  use  of  our  little 
pill. 

I  came  into  the  warden's  office  one  morning  to 
report  the  most  recent  statistics.  We  had  kept  twice 
as  many  convicts  out  on  the  street  as  the  expected 
number.  We  had  halved  the  crime  rate.  He  listened 
politely  but  he  kept  glancing  toward  the  corner  of 
the  room.  When  I  finished  he  got  up  and  clapped 
me  on  the  back  and  led  me  to  the  corner.  Look  at 
that,  he  said  proudly. 

It  was  an  architect's  color  drawing  of  a  super 
prison.  Look.  Two  football  fields.  This  wing  is  for 
admitting  and  orientation.  Two  more  cell  blocks. 
Mess  halls  double  in  size.  We'll  have  capacity  for 
twice  as  many  inmates  and  we  can  double  the  staff 
all  the  way  down  the  line. 

His  eyes  were  glowing  like  anyone  showing  you 
his  dream  plan.  Success.  His  fantasy  was  coming 
true.  A  prison  and  an  organizational  table  twice  as 
big!  The  bureaucrats'  goal. 

But  warden,  you're  not  going  to  need  a  larger 
prison.  His  face  registered  surprise.  Why  not?  Be- 
cause we're  cutting  your  recidivism  rate  in  half, 
remember.  You  won't  need  to  have  all  the  cells  you 
have  now.  You  won't  need  to  have  half  the  guards 
you  now  have,  if  you  let  us  turn-on  your  prison. 

The  warden  laughed.  He  liked  me  and  felt  pro- 
tective toward  our  hopes.  Well,  we're  getting  some 
of  your  men  back.  Kelly  returned  today  in  hand- 
cuffs. He  was  one  of  your  men,  wasn't  he? 

Yes,  Kelly  had  come  back  to  the  prison  and  so 
were  some  others  returning.  They  had  not  com- 
mitted new  crimes.  They  were  returning  cheerfully, 
peacefully,  quietly,  not  making  it  on  the  outside. 
Dropping-out. 

Kelly  was  a  good  example.  He  had  been  paroled 
and  went  back  to  the  slum  housing  project  where 
his  wife  and  four  children  awaited  him.  He  walked 
in  on  a  financial  crisis.  The  state  support  money  for 
families  of  prisoners  stopped  the  day  he  got  out.  He 
had  no  job.  Five  reproachful  mouths  to  feed.  His 
relations  with  his  wife,  never  good,  had  been 
further  strained  by  his  imprisonment.  His  occupa- 
tional assets,  never  good,  were  weakened  by  his 
prison  record. 


Under  psilocybin  I  have 
taken  on  a  different  atti- 
tude toward  people  and 
friends.  I  was  always  dif- 
ferent in  manner  and  just 
the  opposite  of  what  this 
drug  brought  out. 


Impulse  has  been  the  main 
factor  in  my  doing  things 
and  through  these  impulses 
I  have  been  incarcerated, 
but  I  am  looking  for  a  way 
to  turn  away  from  impulse. 


As  I  was  laying  in  the  bed 
with  the  blanket  over  my 
head,  I  kept  getting  these 
wonderful  feelings,  all 
through  my  body.  I  can't 
explain  how  they  felt,  but 
they  felt  so  good  that  I  was 
hoping  that  they  would  last 
all  day,  but  they  didn't. 


For  a  little  while  after  that, 
I  went  through  a  great  deal 
of  suffering.  It  seems  that 
I  was  strapped  down  to  a 
table  or  something,  and  I 
was  cut  open  from  my  chest 
to  my  stomach,  and  it 
seems  that  I  could  taste 
blood  in  my  mouth. 


210  00   The  Prisoners  Will  Become  Priests 


As  I  was  laying  there  bleed- 
ing, there  were  some  peo- 
ple standing  over  me,  saying 
too  bad,  but  they  weren't 
trying  to  help  me. 


It  was  then  that  I  seemed 
to  be  fighting  something, 
when  Dr.  Presnell  came 
over  to  me  and  took  the 
blankets  off  my  head.  I  had 
felt  then  that  he  had  just 
saved  my  life. 


I  got  up  to  go  to  the  bath- 
room, and  I  got  a  little 
dizzy.  Everything  that  I  saw, 
and  the  color  of  them 
seemed  to  be  more  intense. 
After  I  came  out  of  the 
bathroom,  I  went  over  to 
one  of  the  windows  and 
looked  out.  I  was  feeling 
very  happy. 


Dr.  Leary  came  over  to  me 
and  asked  me  how  I  felt.  I 
told  him  I  felt  free.  As  soon 
as  I  said  that,  the  happi- 
ness left  me.  I  started  to 
think  what  I  was  free  from. 
I  looked  around  the  room, 
and  for  the  first  time,  I  no- 
ticed the  bars  on  the  win- 
dows. 


Kelly  was  plunged,  ill-prepared,  into  a  tense, 
frustrating,  almost  hopeless  situation.  The  pride  and 
enthusiasm  and  insight  of  his  psychedelic  sessions 
were  eroding  fast.  Our  outside  contact  team  met 
with  him  and  tried  to  get  him  a  job.  Kelly  was  hard 
to  sell  to  an  employer. 

Now,  if  you  put  yourself  into  Kelly's  head,  you 
get  this  perspective.  The  outside  society  of  Boston 
is  cold,  demanding,  degrading,  inhospitable,  heavy 
with  responsibility,  empty  of  reward.  Kelly  looks 
back  at  the  prison,  free  food  and  lodging  and  a  job. 
There,  he  is  a  wanted  man.  He  has  a  place.  A  role. 
But  more  than  that,  in  the  prison  is  the  warmth  of 
the  group,  the  pride  of  belonging  to  the  mushroom- 
elite,  the  rare  unexpected  ecstasy  and  adventure  of 
the  psychedelic  drug  trip,  the  companionship.  The 
session  room  was  home.  Like  a  hummingbird,  Kelly 
starting  circling  back  to  Concord.  It  was  so  easy. 
Just  be  drinking  beer  when  the  parole  officer  comes 
to  inspect,  and  sound  unenthusiastic  about  getting 
a  job. 

Sorry,  Kelly,  but  we  have  to  pull  your  parole. 
You're  going  back.  Kelly  was  going  home,  back  to 
his  cellmates. 

The  problem  was  that  the  close  tribal  fabric  of 
the  prison  group  was  pulled  apart  in  the  city. 
Everything  in  the  Boston  culture  was  geared  to 
push  Kelly  back  to  crime. 

We  needed  a  tribal  center,  a  halfway  house.  A 
place  in  Boston  where  the  ex-cons  could  reinstate 
the  closeness  of  the  prison  group.  The  tribal  tie  has 
to  be  strong  to  protect  its  people  in  the  brutal 
anonymity  of  the  city. 

We  started  looking  around  for  a  house  to  rent. 
We  ran  into  the  usual  problems.  Landlords  turned 
off  when  they  learned  that  we  were  planning  a 
center  for  ex-convicts.  We  didn't  have  the  money  or 
the  energy  to  set  up  a  house.  It  was  obvious  that  we 
would  have  to  live  in  the  house  ourselves  with  the 
ex-cons.  Sit  around  the  homefire  with  them,  become 
inmates  with  them,  and  we  weren't  ready  to  make 
that  big  step  of  love  and  commitment. 

We  sat  in  our  offices  at  Harvard  and  made  great 
plans  and  sent  men  out  to  look  for  real  estate.  And 
then  at  five  o'clock  we  returned  to  our  comfortable 


Spring  1961  00    211 


homes  in  the  Boston  suburbs  and  the  ex-cons  went 
back  to  the  slums. 

Sixth  in  the  second  place  means:  Fellowship  with 
men  in  the  clan.  Humiliation.  There  is  danger  here 
of  formation  of  a  separate  faction  on  the  basis  of 
personal  and  egoistic  interests.  Such  factions,  tohich 
are  exclusive  and,  instead  of  welcoming  all  men, 
must  condemn  one  group  in  order  to  unite  the 
others,  originate  from  low  motives  and  therefore 
lead  in  the  course  of  time  to  humiliation.  ( I  Ching ) 

In  the  sessions  we  were  all  gods,  all  men  at  one. 
We  were  all  two-billion-year-old  seed  centers  puls- 
ing together.  Then  as  time  slowly  froze  we  were 
reborn  in  the  old  costumes  and  picked  up  the  tired 
games. 

We  weren't  yet  ready  to  act  on  our  revelation. 
The  spark  we  had  lit  within  each  one  of  us  was 
there  and  we  guarded  it,  but  the  sun-flame  had  not 
yet  burst  forth. 


The  walls  that  were  keeping 
me  from  freedom.  I  said  to 
myself,  is  this  all  that  I  have 
to  look  forward  to  for  the 
rest  of  my  life?  I  started  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  floor; 
I  looked  out  of  the  window, 
and  the  walls  seemed  to  be 
closing  in  on  me.  They  kept 
getting  closer  and  closer. 
I  got  scared.  I  looked 
around  the  room  for  some 
place  to  hide.  I  didn't  hide. 
I  decided  to  face  it.  I  looked 
at  the  walls  and  said,  "You 
are  not  going  to  get  the 
best  of  me,"  and  the  walls 
moved  back  to  their  regular 
position. 

00 


THE  JUDGMENT 

fellowship  with  men  in  the  open. 
Success. 

It  furthers  one  to  cross  the  great  water. 
The  perseverance  of  the  superior 
man  furthers. 

(I  Ching) 


PS 
H 


When  the  Celestial  Messenger  Comes      gjjj 

Wearing  a  Fedora,      E 

Can  You  Suspend  Your  Games?      w 

a 
» 

O 

d 

o 

d 
02 

0 

Summer  1961  5 

O 

Guide:     bill  burroughs  c/j 

Oracle:  XVIII  § 

H 
Work  on  What  Has  Been  Spoiled  (Decay)     q 

*j 
O 

Keeping  Still,  Mountain  C 

S3 

O 

r 

The  Gentle,  Wind  £ 


T/ie  wind  blows  low  on  the  mountain: 
The  image  of  decay. 

Thus  the  superior  man  stirs  up  the  people 
And  strengthens  their  spirit. 

(IChing) 


TRIP  11 


WILLIAM  BURROUGHS: 

May  6,  1961 

Cargo  U.S.  Consulate 

Tangier 

Morocco 

Dear  Dr.  Leary: 

I  would  like  to  sound  a  word 
of  urgent  warning  with  re- 
gard to  the  hallucinogen 
drugs  with  special  reference 
to  N-Dimethyltryptamine. 


I  had  obtained  a  supply  of 
this  drug  synthesized  by  a 
chemist  friend  in  London. 


My  first  impression  was 
that  it  closely  resembled 
psilocybin  in  its  effects. 


I  had  taken  it  perhaps  ten 
times — (this  drug  must  be 
injected  and  the  dose  is 
about  one  grain  but  I  had 
been  assured  that  there 
was  a  wide  margin  of 
safety) — with  results  some- 
times unpleasant  but  well 
under  control  and  always 
interesting  when  the  horri- 
ble experience  occurred 
which  I  have  recorded  and 
submitted  for  publication  in 
Encounter. 


You've  got  to  write  a  big,  enthusiastic  letter  to 
Burroughs  and  get  him  interested  in  taking  the 
mushrooms.  He  knows  more  about  drugs  than  any- 
one alive.  What  a  report  he'll  write  you!  This  was 
Allen  Ginsberg  talking  in  the  winter  of  1960-61,  but 
it  could  have  been  any  of  a  dozen  other  advisors. 
Burroughs  is  the  Man.  He  knows  the  drug  scene 
from  head  to  heel. 

Allen  Ginsberg  left  a  copy  of  Junky,  a  hard- 
bitten, powerful  account  of  the  1950  drug  scene  in 
New  York.  Written  by  Burroughs  under  the  pseu- 
donym William  Lee,  the  book  is  so  real  it  stinks  of 
subways-late-at-night,  and  the  stale  must  of  Eighth 
Avenue  hotels,  the  sickening  odor  of  benzedrine,  and 
the  dry  sweat  of  tenement  sexuality.  The  last  lines 
of  Junky  announced  the  author's  intention  to  pur- 
sue the  hallucinogenic  grail  to  South  America. 
"Kick  is  momentary  freedom  from  the  claims  of  the 
aging,  cautious,  frightened  flesh.  Yage  may  be  the 
final  fix." 

Yage  is  a  vine,  Ayahuasca  or  Banisteriopsis 
Caape,  found  in  the  Amazon  regions  of  Peru  and 
Colombia  which  Ginsberg  described  as  a  telepathic- 
hallucinogenic-mind-expanding  drug  used  by  Ama- 
zon Indian  doctors  for  finding  lost  objects,  mostly 
bodies  and  souls. 

In  1953  Burroughs  had  made  the  trip  to  Bogota, 
Pasto,  Macon,  and  then  to  Peru  on  the  trail  of 
visions.  Now,  seven  years  later,  he  was  in  Paris 
experimenting  with  hallucinations  produced  by 
flicker  machines. 

What  has  been  spoiled  through  mans  fault  can  be 
made  good  again  through  mans  work.  It  is  not 
immutable  fate,  as  in  the  time  of  STANDSTILL, 
that  has  caused  the  state  of  corruption,  but  rather 
the  abuse  of  human  freedom.  ( I  Ching  XVIII ) 
214 


Summer  1961  00    215 


After  a  while  a  letter  arrived  from  Paris. 

Dear  Timothy  Leary: 

Thanks  for  your  letter.  I  agree  all  the  way.  My 
work  and  understanding  benefits  from  Hallucino- 
gens measureably.  Wider  use  of  these  drugs 
would  lead  to  better  work  conditions  on  all  levels. 
Might  be  interesting  to  gather  anthology  of  mush- 
room writing.  I  will  be  glad  to  send  along  my 
results.  Enclosed  minutes  to  go  which  may  interest 
you  along  lines  you  indicate  in  letter.  I  have  made 
cut-up  highs  without  chemical  assistants.  Brion 
Gysin  who  first  applied  the  cut-up  method  to  writ- 
ing is  here  at  the  above  address  and  would  also  be 
most  interested  to  take  the  mushrooms.  So  I  will 
look  forward  to  hearing  from  you.  You  have  my  full 
agreement  and  support. 

Sincerely, 
William  Burroughs 
P.S.  Do  you  know  Doctor  Shultes  of  the  Harvard 
Botanical  Dept?  I  met  him  in  South  America.  He 
has  taken  Bannisteriopsis  and  is  most  interested  in 
experiments  with  the  hallucinogens. 

In  reply  I  sent  a  supply  of  psilocybin  pills  to  the 
world's  most  experienced  experimenter  on  drugs 
and  awaited  a  report.  His  report  was  surprising. 
Burroughs  had  a  bad  trip  on  DMT  and  was  sound- 
ing the  cry  of  urgent  warning. 

We  studied  the  letter  with  considerable  interest 
and  got  a  wide  variety  of  interpretations.  We  had 
learned  enough  to  know  that  set-and-setting  deter- 
mined the  reaction,  not  the  drug. 

Bill  Burroughs  alias  Doctor  Benway  had  inadver- 
tently taken  an  overdose  of  DMT  and  was  flung 
into  a  space-fiction  paranoia. 

Shortly  after  receiving  the  warning,  I  wrote  ask- 
ing Burroughs  if  he  would  participate  in  a  sympo- 
sium of  psychedelic  drugs  which  we  had  arranged 
for  the  September  1961  meetings  of  the  American 
Psychological  Association.  I  was  impressed  with 
Burroughs'  experimental  bent,  the  rigor  and 
sternness  of  his  declaration  about  precise  research. 
We  were  intrigued  by  the  idea  of  the  great  novelist 


I  am  sending  along  to  you 
pertinent  sections  of  this 
manuscript  and  I  think  you 
will  readily  see  the  danger 
involved. 


I  do  not  know  if  you  are  fa- 
miliar with  apomorphine 
which  is  the  only  drug  that 
acts  as  a  metabolic  regu- 
lator. 


I  think  if  I  had  not  had  this 
drug  to  hand,  the  result 
could  have  been  lethal  and 
this  was  not  more  than  a 
grain  and  a  half  of  N-Di- 
methyltryptamine. 


While  I  have  described  the 
experience  in  allegorical 
terms  it  was  completely  and 
horribly  real  and  involved 
unendurable  pain. 


A  metabolic  accident? 


Perhaps. 


But  I  have  wide  experience 
with  drugs  and  excellent 
constitution  and  I  am  not 
subject  to  allergic  reac- 
tions. 


So  I  can  only  urge  you  to 
proceed  with  caution  and 
to  familiarize  yourself  with 
apomorphine. 


216  00    The  Celestial  Messenger 


Dr.  John  Dent  of  London 
has  written  a  book  on  the 
apomorphine  treatment  for 
alcoholics  and  drug  addicts 
— (it  is  the  only  treatment 
that  works  but  the  U.S. 
Health  Dept.  will  not  use  it). 


His  book  is  called  Anxiety 
and  Its  Treatment. 


i  can  ask  him  to  send  you 
a  copy  if  you  are  interested. 


Let  me  hear  from  you. 

William  Burroughs 
00 


From  Minutes  to  Go  by  Wil- 
liam Burroughs: 

The  hallucinogen  drug  bot- 
tle and  smoke  pictures  of 
strange  places  and  states 
of  being  some  familiar 
some  alien  as  the  separa- 
tion word  beautiful  and  ugly 
spirits  blossom  in  the  brain 
like  Chinese  flowers  in 
some  lethal  blossoms  bottle 
genie  of  appalling  condi- 
tions hatch  cosmographies 
and  legends  spill  through 
mind  screen  movies  over- 
lapping myths  of  the  race. 


The  Night  Before  Thinking 
was  recorded  from  a  young 
Arab  painter  Achmed  Ja- 
coubi  who  cannot  read  or 
write. 


(Recorded  1958  past  time.) 


running  precise-controlled  research  sessions.  We 
offered  to  pay  travel  expenses  for  the  trip  to  New 
York  and  asked  Burroughs  if  he  wanted  to  spend 
some  time  in  Cambridge  after  the  symposium.  The 
answer  came  back,  Sure. 

In  July  of  that  summer  I  went  to  Tangier  to  see 
Allen  Ginsberg  and  to  plan  the  conference  with 
Burroughs.  After  the  plane  from  Madrid  pulled  up 
to  the  Tangier  air  terminal,  we  were  held  up  for 
fifteen  minutes  while  the  family  of  the  King  passed 
to  another  waiting  airplane,  emblazoned  with 
Arabic  script  and  regal  emblems.  More  than  a 
dozen  women  in  veils  picked  their  way  daintily 
across  the  runway  guarded  by  police  and  soldiers. 

Over  at  the  terminal  behind  the  rail,  a  man  with 
long  blond  hair  waved  and  shouted.  It  was  Peter 
Orlovsky,  leaving  in  half  an  hour  for  Gibraltar,  then 
to  Athens  and  the  far,  far  East.  He  was  sick  of 
Tangier  and  didn't  like  what  was  going  on  there. 
He  had  quarreled  with  Burroughs,  and  was  off  to 
find  wise  men  and  wild  drugs  in  the  East.  Ill  take 
drugs  you've  never  heard  of!  Morgenlandfahrt. 
Have  a  good  trip,  Peter. 

The  taxi  climbed  the  winding  street  to  the  little 
hotel  where  Allen  Ginsberg  had  reserved  rooms  for 
me  at  two  dollars  a  night.  Allen  was  out.  As  I 
waited  in  the  living  room  of  the  concierge,  a  thin, 
stooped  man  wearing  glasses  and  a  hat  walked  in. 
Two  handsome  British  boys  about  nineteen  years 
old  were  with  him. 

Burroughs.  Fine.  I  was  just  about  to  look  you  up. 
Leave  a  note  for  Allen.  Let's  have  a  drink. 

We  sat  in  the  outdoor  garden  of  a  restaurant  and 
had  several  gins  while  we  reviewed  the  Harvard 
and  American  plans.  Mind.  Brain.  Drugs.  Mind. 
Brain.  Drugs.  Burroughs  was  noncommittal  about 
the  mushrooms  but  he  was  pleased  with  our  re- 
search and  the  plans  to  visit  America. 

Then  we  went  back  to  the  hotel  and  had  dinner 
with  Allen  Ginsberg,  Gregory  Corso,  and  Allen 
Ansen.  After  dinner  we  went  to  Burroughs'  hotel.  A 
lion's  head  stared  from  the  door.  We  walked 
through  into  a  garden  and  around  to  the  very  back 
to  Burroughs'  room.  Dark  cave.  Big  bed.  Desk 
littered  with  papers.  Hundreds  of  photos  pasted 


218  00   The  Celestial  Messenger 


The  Night  Before  Thinking 
came  to  Jacoubi  under  the 
influence  of  majoun,  a  form 
of  hashish  candy — (note- 
worthy that  there  has  been 
almost  no  work  done  on 
the  chemistry  of  Cannabis 
whereas  other  hallucinogens 
are  receiving  constant  at- 
tention). 


When  the  story  of  Jacoubi 
came  to  the  attention  of  this 
department,  Doctor  Benway 
was  conducting  experiments 
with  some  of  the  new  hal- 
lucinogens and  had  inad- 
vertently taken  a  slight  over- 
dose of  N-Dimethyltrypta- 
mine — Dim-N  for  short — 
class  of  South  American 
narcotic  plants  prestonia 
related  to  bufotina,  which 
a  species  of  poisonous 
toad  spits  out  of  its  eyes. 


There  is  also  reason  to  sus- 
pect a  relation  to  a  poison 
injected  by  certain  fish  from 
sharp  fin  spines. 


This  fish  poison  causes  a 
pain  so  intense  that  mor- 
phine brings  no  relief. 


Described  as  fire  through 
the  blood:  photo  falling — 
word  falling — breakthrough 
in  gray  room — towers  open 
fire — a  blast  of  pain  and 
hate  shook  the  room  as  the 
shot  of  Dim-N  hit  and  I  was 
captured  in  enemy  terri- 
tory power  of  Sammy  the 
Butcher. 


together  and  rephotographed.  Cut  up  pictures.  Boil 
out  the  essence  of  the  pictures.  And  then  shoot  it. 

Three  off-tuned  radios  blaring  noise.  Static  is  the 
essence  of  sound.  Pot  cutting-board.  Allen's  pic- 
tures of  Marrakesh.  We  sat  around  the  room,  taking 
turns  peering  through  the  cardboard  cylinder 
flicker  machine.  Burroughs  wanted  to  take  mush- 
rooms. Allen  Ginsberg  said,  Well,  everyone  in  Tan- 
gier has  been  waiting  for  you  to  arrive  with  the 
legendary  mushrooms.  Oh,  intercontinental  fame  of 
Montezuma's  medicine.  Oh,  fabled  poets.  Yes,  they 
will  write  expatriate  reports  in  blank  verse,  interna- 
tional. Allen  Ansen  from  Venice  will.  William  Bur- 
roughs from  St.  Louis  will  send  a  mysterious  reply 
in  tissue  script.  Allen  Ginsberg,  still  scared,  will 
chant  an  epistolary  record.  And  Gregory  Corso, 
owlwise,  catsmouth,  cheerful-Panda-bear-Charlie- 
Chaplin,  will  with  pleasure  tap  out  a  few  lines  on 
the  fabled  typewriter.  And  the  two  young  English- 
men cool  with  wild  poet's  hair  will  spin  out  state- 
ments. Good  deal.  All  experienced  hands  at  con- 
sciousness-expansion. 

The  session  began  in  Burroughs'  room,  dim-lit, 
unmade  bed,  crowded,  smoky.  Burroughs  lay  back 
on  the  bed.  The  English  boys  watched  him.  The 
rest  of  us  walked  out  to  the  garden  and  looked  over 
the  wall  down  on  Tangier  Harbor.  Allen  was  de- 
pressed over  Peter's  departure.  What  did  Peter  say? 
How  did  he  seem?  He  was  struggling  with  Bur- 
roughs. Burroughs  is  anti-love. 

It  so  happened  that  the  Boyal  Fair  was  in  town 
and  the  King's  picture  was  draped  over  wires  at 
every  street  intersection,  and  we  could  see  the 
fairground  ablaze  with  lights  down  near  the  beach 
and  hear  the  sound  of  drums  and  pipes. 

It  was  the  essence  of  night,  warm,  clear,  hung  on 
a  ledge  above  North  Africa's  port,  Moorish  music 
drifting  up  to  us  watching. 

Allen  Ansen  and  Gregory  Corso  were  grinning 
and  we  all  looked  at  each  other  and  breathed  in 
deeply.  Whew!  Pure,  burnished  ecstasy. 

Allen  Ginsberg  said  that  Burroughs  seemed  to 
want  to  be  quiet,  so  why  didn't  we  go  over  to  his 
place  and  watch  the  night  from  there.  We  floated 
down  the  steps  to  the  hotel  and  then  up  to  the  patio 


Summer  1961  00   219 


in  front  of  Aliens  room.  The  floor  beneath  was  a 
city  carpeted  with  lights.  Lights  strung  from  the 
rigging  of  ships  in  the  harbor  and  the  King's  carni- 
val crazily  rollicking  along  by  the  water's  edge. 

We  were  all  in  the  highest  and  most  loving  of 
moods.  Allen  Ansen  couldn't  believe  it.  He  kept 
laughing  and  shaking  his  head.  This  can't  be  true. 
So  beautiful.  Heaven!  But  where  is  the  devil's 
price?  Anything  this  great  must  have  a  terrible  flaw 
in  it.  It  can't  be  this  good.  Is  it  addictive?  Will  we 
ever  come  down?  I  hope  not. 

I  was  answering  the  questions  that  Allen  and 
Gregory  asked  about  the  research  and  what  had 
been  happening  in  the  States.  Comic,  Zen,  mush- 
roomy  talk.  The  four  of  us  moored  like  happy 
balloons  over  Tangier.  Joy.  Love.  Union. 

It  was  decided  to  pick  up  Burroughs  and  then  go 
down  to  visit  the  fair.  When  we  got  to  Burroughs' 
house,  Allen  walked  around  to  the  side  and 
climbed  part  way  up  the  wall  and  uttered  his  ritual 
greeting:  Bill  BUH-rows!  Bill  BUH-rows! 

We  waited  by  the  door  and  after  a  minute  it 
slowly  creaked  open  and  there,  almost  collapsed 
against  the  wall,  was  Bill.  His  face  was  haggard 
and  tense— staring  out  like  man  caught  in  some 
power  of  Sammy  the  Butcher.  He  reached  his  left 
hand  over  his  sweating  face.  Tried  to  slip  out  eyes 
of  white-hot  crab  creatures.  His  thin  fingers  clawing 
at  the  right  cheek,  smoke  escape  cut  off  by  white- 
hot  metal  lattice.  Bill,  how  are  you  doing?  They 
gave  me  large  dose.  I  would  like  to  sound  a  word  of 
warning.  I'm  not  feeling  too  well.  I  was  struck  by 
juxtaposition  of  purple  fire  mushroomed  from  the 
Pain  Banks.  Urgent  Warning.  I  think  I'll  stay  here 
in  shriveling  envelopes  of  larval  flesh.  I'm  going  to 
take  some  apomorphine.  One  of  the  nastiest  cases 
ever  processed  by  this  department. 

You  fellows  go  down  to  the  fair  and  see  film  and 
brain  waves  tuning  in  on  soulless  insect  people. 
Minutes  to  go.  Whew!  The  hallucinogen  drugs 
bottle  and  smoke  pictures,  my  dears.  Compassion. 
Compassion.  Beautiful  and  ugly  spirits  blossom  in 
the  brain.  Too  bad.  Minutes  to  go.  What  can  we 
do?  Compassion  brings  no  relief?  See  you  at  the 
fair.  The  door  closed  around  him  glowing  metal 


The  ovens  closed  round  me 
glowing  metal  lattice  in  pur- 
ple and  blue  and  pink 
screening  burning  flash 
flesh  under  meat  cleaver  of 
Sammy  the  Butcher  and 
pitiless  insect  eyes  of  white- 
hot  crab  creatures  of  the 
ovens. 


Called  for  Hassan  i  Sabbah 
and  the  screams  of  mil- 
lions who  had  called  for 
Hassan  i  Sabbah  in  that 
place  screamed  back  from 
creatures  of  the  oven 
mouths  dripping  purple  fire. 


No  place  to  go  trapped 
here  cut  off  tried  to  slip 
out  on  the  gray  into  mir- 
rors and  spoons  and  door- 
ways of  the  fish  city  but  my 
smoke  escape  was  cut  off 
by  white-hot  metal  lattice  in 
this  soulless  place  of  the 
insect  people. 


Place  of  dry  air  shriveling 
envelopes  of  larval  flesh — 
insect  eyes  of  the  alien  spe- 
cies— the  soulless  insect 
people — and  the  pain  jinn 
dripping  strips  of  purple  fire 
mushroomed  from  the  tower 
blasts — reached  for  my  apo- 
morphine tablets. 


Better  take  a  handful,  Bur- 
roughs, said  the  regulator. 


220  00   The  Celestial  Messenger 


Took  twelve  twentieth-grain 
tablets  and  flashed  a  glim- 
mer of  gray  beyond  the 
ovens  and  made  it  out  to 
the  port  tearoom  on  silver 
tea  set  yesterday  past  fields 
of  interplanetary  war  and 
prisoners  eaten  alive  by 
white-hot  ants. 


Do  not  forget  this  Johnny- 
come-lately:  War! 


War  to  extermination. 


Fading  now. 


Gray  ash  writing  of  Has- 
san i  Sabbah  sifts  through 
the  ovens. 


Dust  and  smoke. 


Gray  writing  of  Hassan  i 
Sabbah  switch  tower  orders 
reverse  fire  back  creatures 
of  the  oven  stored  in  pain 
beaks  from  the  torture 
chambers  of  time. 


Souls  torn  into  insect  frag- 
ments by  iron  claws  of  the 
chessmaster  doctor — who 
synthesized  Dim-N  in  an- 
nexia,  iron  claws? 


They   gave    large    dose   of 
Dim-N. 


lattice  in  purple  and  blue.  He's  the  most  resilient 
man  in  Hassan  i  Sabbah's  mountain  troop.  He'll  be 
all  right.  Good  ole  Bill.  He  takes  no  prisoners. 

We  rolled  like  diamond  hoops  down  to  the 
waterfront.  The  electricians  had  outdone  them- 
selves. Sidewalks  emblazoned  with  Arabic  script. 
What's  that  jeweled  object,  Van  Vogted  on  the 
pavement?  Gem  box  sparkled,  lived.  Once,  for  a 
long  moment,  chance  turned  it,  that  translucent 
fairy  tower,  a  glowing  turquoise  blue.  For  one 
moment— and  then  the  combination  shattered  into 
a  million  bursting  fragments  of  color:  blue,  red, 
green,  yellow.  No  color,  no  possible  shade  of  color, 
was  missing  from  that  silent,  flaming  explosion. 
What  is  it?  Oh,  an  empty  cigarette  package  in  the 
gutter's  lambent  fire.  Come  along.  Oh,  see  the 
conquering  art  of  Moorish  slave  girls  crowned  with 
diadems.  What  a  happy  crowd!  Dancing  with 
lively,  mocking  sound,  blue  tattoos  on  forehead. 
Happy  night  walking  to  the  fair.  With  Baudelaire. 
This  world  of  stone  and  metal;  brittle  and  bright. 
The  family  of  the  King  picked  their  way  across 
daintily.  Flasks  of  perfume,  fabrics  lame  and 
spangled,  rich  furnishings  of  brocade  and  gold,  and 
we  haven't  even  arrived  at  the  gate  to  the  fair  yet. 
Tickets.  Industrial  exhibits  of  the  Alien  Species. 
Ansen  and  Corso  smiling.  Delights  of  Islam. 

Allen  Ginsberg  is  still  melancholy.  Peter  has  left. 
Not  sure  he  believes  in  love.  Not  sure  he  wants  to 
be  a  great  man. 

We  slid  through  canvas  slit  in  Arab  tent,  Gins- 
berg guide,  to  watch  the  dancing.  Oh,  the  endless 
chanting.  Behind  us  a  girl  nurses  her  baby.  Boy 
dancers  swayed  and  rocked  drunkenly.  Chanting. 
And  become  dust  that  is  scattered  on  the  desert 
wind,  swinging  circles  clashing  bronze  cymbals. 
Allen  Ansen,  eyes  closed,  sways  back  and  forth  to 
the  beat.  The  foremost  shall  be  brought  nigh  unto 
God  in  the  Gardens  of  Delight.  The  cymbals 
laughed  and  chanting  told  the  secret.  On  inlaid 
couches  they  recline  face  to  face.  Four  Moorish 
soldiers,  tender  young  in  the  front  row,  eyes  pop- 
ping in  wonder,  while  immortal  youths  go  around 
them  with  goblets  and  flagons  and  a  chalice  of 
wine.  The  dance  endless.  Exactly.  Timeless.  The 


222  00   The  Celestial  Messenger 


Like  five  times  what  you 
took  and  the  prisoners  dis- 
integrated into  oven  crea- 
tures. 


They  took  recordings  in 
sound  film  and  brain  waves 
can  tune  in  on  Dim-N  and 
they  are  moving  to  extend 
the  range  of  tune  in  other 
hallucinogens  and  blockage 
this  planet  under  alien  in- 
sect enemy. 


One  of  the  nastiest  cases 
ever  processed  by  the  de- 
partment. .  .  . 


Final  blast  from  fading  tow- 
ers I  saw  Nova  spirit  burn- 
ing metal  eyes  black  metal 
skull  translucent  with  fire 
head  of  Nova — remembered 
that  turnstile  brought  a  pris- 
oner to  explode  this  planet 
— Uranian-bom  of  Nova 
conditions:  Two  powers  of 
equal  strength  to  be  di- 
rected against  each  other. 


No    riots   like   injustice   di- 
rected between  enemies. 


Minutes  to  go. 


The  tortured  jinn  and  pain 
spirits  to  set  off  the  charge 
from  a  distant  sky  switch — 
white-hot  blast  out  in  vapor 
trails  smoke  writing  of  Has- 
san i  Sabbah. 


cadenced  rise  and  fall  of  breathing  rhythm.  Up. 
Down.  Up.  Down.  Around  us  veiled  women,  mys- 
terious, soft,  inviting,  and  fruit  according  to  their 
choice  and  flesh  of  fowls  that  they  desire.  Ginsberg 
was  whispering  that  the  color  of  the  robe  meant  a 
different  tribe.  Rifs  from  the  mountains.  Fountains? 
Cant  hear  with  talk  of.  Berbers?  Proud?  Loud? 
Joyce?  The  chanting  river  roar  mounts.  There  too 
are  Houris,  with  dark  eyes  like  hidden  pearls.  En- 
tire families  leaning  forward  to  watch,  robed,  listen- 
ing, nor  are  they  bemused.  Whispers— they're  all 
high  on  pot  or  hashish.  That's  why  the  dance  goes 
so  long,  endless  and  always  flowing.  Yeaaaaaaaah. 
But  they  hear  the  ayeing  peace.  Peace.  Now  the 
Ganowanian  drummers  leap  on  stage:  whirling, 
pounding  the  deep,  heavy  drums.  Each  beat 
quivers,  energy  coils,  we  become  each  beat.  Amid 
thornless  lote-trees  and  clustered  plantains  and 
spreading  shade  and  gushing  water.  The  drum- 
mers, Negroid,  fierce,  laughing.  High  too?  Moors 
use  water  in  their  architecture  because  to  a  desert 
people  the  splashing  sound  and  rippling  sight  of 
fountains  is  the  highest  delight.  The  dance  tempo 
quickened  to  a  Niagara  chaos  of  sound  and  high- 
raised  couches.  Consorts  have  we  created  and  we 
have  made  them  virgins.  On  low  stairs  leading  up 
to  the  stage  a  Moorish  maid  beams  out  curious, 
flirting  look  from  olive  slits  behind  a  gray  veil, 
utterly  loving  and  perfectly  matched  we  have  made 
them.  I  fell  in  love  with  veiled  eyes. 

When  the  dancing  stopped  we  filed  outside 
and  walked  to  an  open  cafe  under  the  arcade  of  the 
fair  building.  Arab  music  from  a  radio,  and  squat- 
ting in  the  corner,  a  man  playing  a  guitar.  A  circle 
of  men  sitting  on  cushions  passing  pipes  with  long 
stems  and  small  clay  bowls.  Marijuana  smoke.  A 
man  about  fifty,  wiry  and  cheerful  as  your  plumber 
on  a  party,  jumped  up  and  began  a  belly  dance. 
The  men  watched,  grinned,  and  clapped  their 
hands.  Burroughs  walked  up  with  the  English  boys. 
He  was  feeling  better  but  wasn't  talking.  We  had 
tea  in  tall  glasses  clogged  with  mint  leaves.  Steam- 
ing. Sweet.  Burroughs  wanted  to  go  to  a  bar.  We 
walked  along  the  waterfront,  lazily.  The  bar  was 
crowded  with  men  and  smoky  with  loud  Spanish 


Summer  1961  00    223 


music.  I  said  good  night  to  Burroughs  and  walked 
up  the  hill  with  Allen  and  Gregory  and  stayed  up 
the  rest  of  the  night  talking  on  Allen's  patio  and 
heard  the  cocks  crow  and  saw  the  sun  rise  and 
gleam  on  the  eastern  walls  of  the  city  by  the 
gates. 

During  the  following  days  in  Morocco  I  shot  reels 
of  retinal  film  Tangerine.  At  Paul  Bowles's  apart- 
ment I  heard  his  tapes  of  Arab  music,  recorded  as 
he  walked  down  old  village  dancing  festival  streets, 
and  a  tape  of  Burroughs  reading  his  stuff  at  an 
English  University— powerful,  eerie,  Venusian 
prose.  Minutes  to  go.  No  one  has  captured  the 
horror  of  modern  technology  like  Burroughs— cold 
damp  machinery,  the  television  mind,  cold,  blue- 
steel  sexuality,  plastic  bodies  drained  of  the  warm 
juices.  I  watched  a  session  in  which  several  young 
English  boys  took  majoun  (the  powerful  hashish 
jam).  One  of  them  got  caught  in  bad  visions.  I 
could  see  why.  He  played  the  part  of  a  miserable, 
bullied,  self-despising  English  schoolboy  homo- 
sexual. He  had  walked  in  on  the  session  uninvited 
and  had  tagged  along  unwanted.  Then  suddenly  he 
found  himself  "out  of  his  mind"  in  a  strange  port 
city  amid  strangers  who  disliked  him,  and  he 
trembled  in  fear.  I  watched  to  see  how  the  drug- 
experts  would  handle  the  situation.  For  the  most 
part  he  was  ignored.  He's  a  drag,  man.  Give  him  a 
sedative.  There  was  little  compassion  in  the  honey- 
sweet  majoun  syrup.  Only  Allen  Ginsberg  was  ten- 
der, sitting  next  to  him  and  talking  softly,  curan- 
dero  style. 

When  I  left  Tangier  for  Copenhagen,  I  arranged 
to  meet  Bill  Burroughs  in  London  in  three  weeks. 
Dick  Alpert  and  I  phoned  Bill  and  then  took  a 
cab  to  his  hotel.  He  had  a  small,  dark,  first-floor 
room  with  a  meter  on  the  wall.  Bill  misses  kif. 
Poring  over  photos  of  yage  convulsions.  I  am  a 
good  photographer  of  impersonal  symbols.  The 
mushrooms  of  Tangier  propelled  me  into  arrows  of 
unfriendly.  Let's  try  some  now  to  see  if  they  work 
differently.  We  all  took  4  mg.,  naught  but  a  brush 
of  the  phoenix  bird's  soft  wing. 

In  the  working-class  tearoom.  Bill's  metal  cyni- 
cism American  publishers  cheating  authors.  Pub- 


Break  through  in  gray  room 
— word  falling — photo  fall- 
ing— towers  open  fire — sac- 
rifice partisan  of  all  na- 
tions— 


Sacrifice  iron  claws — you 
are  under  arrest  iron 
claws — 


Gray  police  of  the  regulator 
do  their  work  and  go  down 
all  your  streets  and  by  the 
river  light  on  water  flash 
spoons  and  tea  pots — 


Poison  of  dead  sun  in  my 
brain  slowly  fading — now 
Sammy  the  Butcher  fill  your 
hand — 


Fan  silver  bullets  from  the 
old  westerns  whistling  im- 
age of  Sammy  the  Butcher 
explode  a  million  flash 
bulbs  smell  of  burning 
metal — 


Cut  on  gray  into  The  Gun- 
fighter — blast  Sammy  the 
Butcher  from  the  West  the 
West  Side  push  I  told  over 
the  gray  subway — through 
silent  turnstiles — 


Click  clack  out  to  gray  taxi 
down  shadow  streets  of 
Tangier — back  from  gang- 
ster films — 


Use  that  typewriter — 


224  00    The  Celestial  Messenger 


Chop  chop  swift  Samurai 
sword — machete  silver  flash 
Sammy's  last  picture — now 
Sammy  the  Butcher  ad- 
vances from  his  corner — 


He  is  using  his  chopping 
techniques  that  earned  him 
his  moniker — 


Sammy  can't  seem  to  reach 
the  contender  slipping 
dodging  shifting  into  gray 
junk  flesh  stale  overcoats 
and  shaking  spoons — 


Cut  into  newsreel  prize- 
fights and  send  all  those 
fists  crushing  into  Sammy's 
soft  underside — 


Mr.  Bradly  Mr.  Martin 
through  the  gray  turnstile 
click  a  million  switch  blades 
Uranian-born  in  the  face  of 
Nova  conditions — 


The  champ  is  worried  folks 
— Molotov  cocktails  from 
the  streets  of  Berlin  and 
Budapest — 


Cut  chop  with  that  type- 
writer— stampeding  herds 
from  the  West — turn  the 
animals  loose  on  Sammy — 


Cut  TV  bullfights  Mexico 
DF — chop  that  horn  write 
up  into  Sammy's  groin — 
use  all  the  strength  of  those 
neck  muscles  you  got  it? — 


lisher  Benny  and  his  neuroses  and  his  mistress  and 
his  lawyers  and  his  analysts.  Ah  Beckett.  Awe  and 
reverence.  Sent  emissary  to  Beckett  to  arrange  an 
interview.  But  Beckett  sees  no  one.  With  Tangier 
mushrooms,  feared  lack  of  control.  Stop  all  that 
vibrating.  Regrets  Soft  Machine.  Won't  be  under- 
stood. Cut-up  is  too  far  out. 

Walking  the  London  streets.  He  doesn't  like  the 
loss  of  control.  We  were  swallowed  by  two  mush- 
room pills  and  sat  in  the  green  mouth  of  the  park 
on  white  dental  benches.  Richard  brooding  about 
Greek  sexual  Utopias  and  watching  the  passersby. 
Burroughs  talking  brilliantly  leather  beaten  face, 
turkey  neck.  Ah  J.  B.  Rhine,  you  German  river  of 
experimentation.  ESP  is  either  accidental  (little 
whirlpools  of  old  vibrations  caught  in  pockets,  pre- 
served, and  suddenly  tuned-in  to)  or  functional 
(sender  needs  the  message  delivered).  ESP  can 
never  be  experimental.  Why  do  research?  The  stro- 
boscope. It  frightens  me.  Burroughs  needs  equip- 
ment to  experiment.  Dr.  Gray  Walter  can  locate 
hallucinations.  Let's  say  a  peasant  woman  comes 
with  a  devil  vision.  Well,  by  precise  manipulation 
of  specific  brain  points,  localized  you  understand, 
the  doctor  proceeds  to  remove  the  devil's  horns,  one 
by  one,  and  then  without  horns  the  devil  is  just  a 
man  in  her  room.  Well,  then  by  precise  manipula- 
tion of  specific  brain  cells  the  devil's  leer  becomes  a 
smile  and  then  by  further  precise  manipulations, 
the  man  gets  to  look  familiar  and,  well,  to  make  a 
long  story  short,  he  eventually  lays  her  right  in  the 
bed  in  which  she  is  hallucinating  and  she  has  an 
orgasm,  not  one  but  several.  Whew!  All  in  her 
imagination  by  simple  manipulation,  precise,  based 
on  specific  localization  of  hallucinatory  content. 
Imagination  is  real,  after  all.  Are  you  involved  like 
us  in  the  game  of  helping  the  human  race?  Hell  no. 
Hassan  i  Sabbah  only  wants  his  returned. 

Imagine  a  simple,  middle-class  tearoom.  How  it 
swirls  in  mushroom  smoke.  Line  up  for  puddles  of 
brown,  milky  tea  sweet  steamy.  The  essence  of 
anything  is  the  cut-up.  Cut  up  words.  Cut  up 
pictures.  Boil  it  down  to  the  essence.  Strip  off  all 
the  irrelevant,  redundant.  Boil  it  down  in  a  steamy 
teaspoon  and  then  shoot  it.  Laughs.  Jolly.  Want  to 
sell  Coke?  Coca-Cola,  I  mean?  Get  thousands  of 


Summer  1961  00   225 


pictures  of  Coke  being  drunk  in  every  kind  of 
situation.  Paste  up  all  the  pictures  on  a  wall  and 
take  a  picture  of  that— then  all  the  thousand  photos 
are  in  one  photo.  The  essence  of  Coke-photo.  Madi- 
son Avenue.  Seeit  getrich.  Window  design  advertis- 
ing. Grab  monopoly  money.  Henry  light  sitting  on  a 
luce  pile  of  pictures  a  mile  high  in  that  Time-Life 
building.  They  have  pictures  of  every  inch  of  the 
world. 

Virus  and  parasite.  Like  that  Humpy.  Don't  let 
them  in,  the  parasites.  They  always  worm  and  then 
make  you  feel  guilty.  Be  immune.  Don't  bargain 
with  them.  You  can't  negotiate  with  a  parasite.  The 
soft  machine  is  too  difficult.  I  am  now  writing  a 
science-fiction  book  that  a  twelve-year-old  can  un- 
derstand. I  write  to  create  my  own  reality.  Sound 
an  urgent  warning  against  parasites.  Tapeworms 
are  invisible.  Viral  invasion  of  the  brain.  Watch  out 
don't  let  them  enter.  Politics  of  the  virus.  What  do 
parasites  want?  To  keep  the  status  quo.  Worm  their 
way  into  the  host.  Psychedelic  drugs  are  counter- 
agents.  Destroy  the  virus.  Destroy  the  status  quo. 
Psychedelic  drugs  are  specific  cure  for  brain  para- 
sites. Cerebral  virus  live  in  nervous  systems.  Eat 
and  create  waste  products  which  prevent  con- 
sciousness-expansion. A  hangup  is  due  to  immobili- 
zation caused  by  waste  products  of  neural  para- 
sites. Politics  of  parasites.  Do  not  kill  off  the  host. 
Need  him  to  eat  off.  Like  con  and  the  mark.  Virus  is 
like  any  rich  politician.  Vested  interest  in  keeping 
brain  immobilized— keeping  consciousness  con- 
tracted. 

Symbiosis  is  the  political  slogan  of  parasite. 
When  a  parasite  is  cornered,  when  you've  got  him 
covered  in  your  sights,  he'll  try  to  convince  you  that 
you  need  a  symbiotic  relationship.  You  need  me 
eating  off  you! 

Or  he'll  try  to  convince  you  that  you  made  him  a 
parasite.  It's  not  my  fault  I  have  to  eat  off  you.  You 
led  me  on.  You  invited  me  in.  Like  Humpy.  I  gave 
him  a  junk  habit.  Or  with  poor  boys.  You  taught  me 
to  enjoy  nice  things.  Oceans  of  tan,  sweet,  steaming 
tea  wash  through  English  surburban  restaurant 
spilling  brown  on  the  counters.  Sugary  tan  the  air. 
Let's  leave. 

Floating  down  the  street,  Burroughs  creating  cut- 


Loose  pack  of  vicious  dogs 
from  The  Savage  Innocents 
— strife  in  battle  scenes  and 
fighter  flames — cool  and 
casual  whistling  killers  drift 
in  from  1920  streets — 


They  are  not  come  just  a 
looka  you  Sammy — folks 
the  Butcher  has  taken  a 
terrible  beating  in  this 
round — 


He  looks  dazed  and  keeps 
shaking  his  head  from  side 
to  side — there  goes  the 
bell- 


Now  throw  in  that  pain  jinn 
sixty  feet  tall  dripping  pur- 
ple fire — King  Kong — 


Street  gangs  Uranian-born 
in  the  face  of  Nova  con- 
ditions pinball  machine  the 
world — shift  tilt  that  oven 
pain  in  color  splats  tracer 
bullets  bursting  rockets — 


Folks  the  Butcher  is  click- 
ing back  and  forth  like  a 
bear  in  a  shooting  gallery — 


The  contender  has  Sammy 
on  the  ropes  now — he's 
using  Sammy's  chopping 
techniques — 


226  00   The  Celestial  Messenger 


Blow  after  blow  air-ham- 
mers the  code  write  into 
Sammy's  diaphragm — dis- 
perse in  broken  mirrors 
clouds  cyclones  low  pres- 
sure Sammy's  image  into 
your  flash  bulb — sput. 


Witnesses  from  a  distance 
observed  in  brilliant  flash 
and  a  roaring  blast  as 
Sammy  the  Butcher  was  ar- 
rested. 


Having  written  this  ac- 
count of  my  experience 
with  Dim-N — (and  I  would 
like  to  sound  a  word  of 
warning) — I  was  of  course 
struck  by  juxtapositions  of 
areas  between  my  account 
and  The  Night  Before 
Thinking  recorded  by  Ach- 
med  Jacoubi  five  years  ear- 
lier. 


I  took  a  page  of  my  text — 
first  draft — and  folded  it 
down  the  middle  and  passed 
down  the  middle  of  the 
page  in  Jacoubi's  text 
where  he  relates  the  oven 
incident  on  page  7. 


NOTE     1: 

Hassan  i  Sabbah  the  old 
man  of  the  mountain  of  the 
assassins  lived  in  the  year 
one  thousand. 


From  a  remote  mountain 
fortress  called  Alamout  he 
could  reach  a  knife  to 
Paris. 


ups.  Scissors  through  parasitology.  Chops  up  in- 
terpersonal psychology,  pastes  in  junk  dialect. 
Beautiful  moment  of  drifting  together.  Caution!  No 
positive  emotions  now!  Suspicious.  Where  go? 
Walk  around  Piccadilly.  Head  for  Chelsea?  Make  a 
plan?  Burroughs  high,  happy,  jolly.  Go  to  our  hotel 
and  have  a  drink  and  then  dinner?  Great.  Bump 
along  in  side-door  London  hack. 

Now  curare  is  an  interesting  drug.  Muscle  pa- 
ralysis. No  possibility  of  action.  Just  lie  there  ab- 
sorbing all  sensation.  Medicine  man  crooning.  Para- 
lyzed. I  was  smothering  and  can't  say  it.  Can't  talk. 
Each  drug  opens  up  an  undiscovered  unexplored 
area.  Some  inhabited  by  hostile  tribes.  Beware. 
The  medicine  man  can  hang  you  up.  Direct  you 
into  unfriendly  territory.  Sound  urgent  warning. 
DMT.  Beware.  Like  to  take  curare  plus  conscious- 
ness-expansion drug.  No  action.  Many  visions.  Ex- 
perimental mind. 

Morocco— culture  built  on  hashish.  Wonderful 
country.  Whole  damn  place  undulating  in  soft 
mellow  haze  of  pot.  Happy  land.  No  wars.  No 
economic  rivalry.  Relaxed  land  of  lotus.  Nirvana. 
Arab  nationalists.  Nova  villains.  Destroy  their  own 
culture.  Want  power.  Want  to  modernize  Moslem 
countries  with  industrial  nightmare  of  West.  Bor- 
row worst  elements  of  West.  Guns  and  machines. 
United  States  pressures  them  to  make  nontoxic 
hashish  illegal.  Force  our  toxic  narcotic  on  them— 
alcohol.  Pot  used  to  be  legal  in  Tangier  and  liquor- 
drinking  illegal.  Now  it's  changed.  Dictators  want 
their  people  in  alcoholic  stupor.  Arab  nationalists 
sitting  in  Cairo  hotels  drinking  Scotch  and  plotting 
westernization  of  their  countries.  Burroughs  drink- 
ing, getting  flushed.  Feel  sick.  Take  apomorphine. 
Nervous.  Sudden  good-night. 

Burroughs  plane  arrives.  Logan  Airport  Boston. 
Customs  inspection.  Routine.  Whew!  Came  in  clean 
as  a  whistle.  Take  no  chances.  America!  Billbad  the 
Bailer  has  returned!  In  the  Newton  House  he  rests, 
restless.  He  has  traveled. 

In  Tangier  he  was  always  busy,  hands  moving, 
chopping  the  leaves,  combing  out  the  seeds,  sifting, 
cleaning,  shaking,  twisting,  tapping,  lighting,  fum- 
ing, chopping,  combing.  Now  sitting  on  the  green 


Summer  1961   00    227 


couch  in  the  booklined  library,  there  was  a  square 
round  Sinbad  the  Sailor  roc's  egg  in  empty  hands. 
Here's  a  box  of  dried  Oaxaca  mushrooms.  Stern 
face,  impassive,  examines  the  samples  which,  with- 
out herbarium  specimens,  he  identified  as  teonana- 
cate,  Flesh  of  the  Gods.  Flush  of  the  Dogs.  If  there 
be  confusion  in  the  botanical  field,  there  is  chaos  in 
the  chemical.  Muttering,  Hmm,  wonder  if  you  can 
smoke  this  stuff.  Why  not?  The  old  Tangier  game. 
A  game  is  a  sequence  of  movements  characterized 
by  a  goal,  roles,  rule,  ritual.  Chop.  Comb.  Sift. 
Twist.  Quick  as  a  flash  young  Jack  Leary  sprang  to 
his  bike  and  pedaled  to  village  for  cigarette  paper. 
Billbad  bends  over  the  table  with  sharp  knife  on 
cutting  board,  chopping,  combing,  sifting,  licking, 
twisting,  lighting,  fuming.  Ugh!  Heavy,  damp, 
gray,  moldy  smoke  lined  throat  and  hung  noxious, 
nauseous  over  the  room.  Thank  you  said  Stephen 
taking  a  cigarette.  Haines  held  the  flaming  punk  in 
the  shell  of  his  hand.  Smoke  a  soggy  log  from  a  frog 
swamp.  I  do  believe  I  am  getting  high.  Mister 
Mushroom's  got  a  cough  mixture  with  a  punch  in  it 
for  you,  my  friend,  in  his  back  pocket.  Toad's  pus 
oozes  into  lung's  cough.  No  more  for  me,  pul- 
monary, but  Billbad  the  Bailer  says  he's  high.  Later 
chemical  consultation  reveals  psychedelic  effect  of 
alkaloid  destroyed  by  combustion. 

Warm  August  nights  in  Newton.  Burroughs 
works  on  the  paper  for  the  American  Psychological 
Association.  The  approach  will  be  scholarly.  Points 
of  Distinction.  Unfortunately  the  word  drug  acti- 
vates scientific  prose;  a  reflex  between  sedative  and 
hallucinogenic  words.  That  week  brought  a  Sep- 
tember wave  of  heat  to  Manhattan.  Symposium  on 
consciousness-expanding  drugs.  Drugs,  Set-and- 
Setting  by  Timothy  Leary.  Unusual  Realization  and 
Alterations  in  Consciousness,  Frank  Barron.  Ecstat- 
ogenic  Comments  by  Gerald  Heard. 

Unusual  interest  realized  that  the  room  must  be 
expanded,  altered.  Not  big  enough.  APA  conven- 
tion manager  uncooperative.  Hundreds  of  audience 
crammed  into  room,  standing  ten-deep  in  hallway, 
sitting  around  speaker's  table,  sprawling  on  floor. 
Burroughs  lecturing  from  his  manuscript,  low  voice 
dry,  noncommittal.  Talk  louder  Bill.  Minutes  to  go. 


There  were  not  more  than 
several  hundred  trainees  in 
any  one  Alamout  shift. 


Hassan  i  Sabbah  made  no 
attempt  to  increase  num- 
bers or  extend  political 
power. 


He  took  no  prisoners. 


There  were  no  torture  cham- 
bers in  Alamout. 


He   was   strictly  a  counter 
puncher. 


When  a  move  was  made 
against  Alamout  by  the  mul- 
tiple enemies  of  Hassan  i 
Sabbah  he  reached  out  with 
his  phantom  knife,  and  a 
general,  a  prime  minister, 
and  a  sultan  died. 


Hassan  i  Sabbah  master  of 
the  jinn. 


Assassin  of  ugly  spirits. 


228  00    The  Celestial  Messenger 


NOTE     2: 

Apomorphine  is  made  by 
boiling  morphine  with  hy- 
drochloric acid. 


This  alters  chemical  formu- 
lae and  physiological  ef- 
fects. 


Apomorphine  has  no  seda- 
tive, narcotic,  or  pain-killing 
effect. 


It  is  a  metabolic  regulator 
that  need  not  be  continued 
when  its  work  is  done. 


I  quote  from  Anxiety  and 
Its  Treatment  by  Dr.  John 
Dent  of  London:  Apomor- 
phine acts  on  the  back 
brain  stimulating  the  regu- 
lating centers  in  such  a  way 
as  to  normalize  the  metabo- 
lism. 


After  the  psychological  convention  the  research 
team  returned  to  Cambridge.  Burroughs  took  up 
resistance  in  my  house,  helpless  as  a  beached  fish. 
The  Harvard  project  members  were  involved  in 
teaching,  rehabilitating  convicts,  experimenting 
foolishly  but  merrily  with  love  engineering,  talking 
and  writing  about  behavior  change,  pursuing 
careers,  academic,  scientific,  marital,  messianic. 
And  under  his  gray  fedora  Burroughs  sat  lonely  in 
third-floor  room  surrounded  by  cut-up  photos  or 
leaned  unsmiling  on  kitchen  table  drinking  gin- 
tonics,  beaming  a  monologue  caustic,  comic,  Has- 
san i  Sabbah,  relentless,  tender  as  a  Venusian-green 
neon  antennae  light  gun  ray,  increasingly  bitter  and 
paranoid  and  always  brilliant,  original,  excruciat- 
ingly cynical,  naked,  personal,  monumental,  lovely. 

Burroughs  with  the  Harvard  project  was  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci  wearing  a  fedora,  pushed  unsmiling 
into  left  field  at  Yankee  Stadium.  Willy  Mays  in  a 
fedora  lured  onto  the  stage  at  Metropolitan  Opera. 
He  was  Christ  with  a  fedora  at  the  Copacabana. 
The  all-time  All-Star  in  the  wrong  tribe. 

From  the  time  he  hit  the  country  he  was  suspi- 
cious and  cynical  of  psychedelic  drugs  and  their 
use.  He  was  instructed  to  turn  up  the  volume  if  he 
experienced  any  pain.  He  never  had  a  session  and 
(although  his  APA  lecture  gallantly  avoided  men- 
tion of  psilocybin)  he  never  concealed  his  distaste 
for  the  drug  we  hoped  he  would  research. 


It  has  been  used  in  the 
treatment  of  alcoholics  and 
drug  addicts  and  normal- 
izes metabolism  in  such  a 
way  as  to  remove  the  need 
for  any  narcotic  substance. 


Apomorphine  cuts  the  mor- 
phine lines  from  the  brain. 


Poison  of  dead  sun  slowly 
fading  is  smoke. 

00 


Sam  sat  on  the  ground  and  put  his  head  in  his 
hands.  I  wish  I  had  never  come  here,  and  I  dont 
want  to  see  no  more  magic,  he  said,  and  fell  silent. 
( The  Lord  of  the  Rings ) 

He  left  silently  without  farewell,  and  then  rumor 
drifted  up  like  damp  smoke  from  New  York  that  he 
had  published  a  no-thank-you  letter  denouncing 
the  Harvard  psychedelics. 

OPEN  LETTER  TO  MY  CONSTITUENTS  AND  CO- 
WORKERS IF  ANY  REMAIN  FOR  THE  END  OF  IT.  THE  HAR- 
VARD PSYCHOLOGISTS  HAVE  MONOPOLIZED  LOVE  SEX 
AND  DREAM! 

Billbad's  accusation:  Harvard's  hallucinogenic 
drug  monopolists   cover  travel  arrangements  but 


Summer  1961  00    229 


never  pay  the  constituents  they  have  betrayed  and 
sold  out.  They  offer  love  in  slop  buckets  to  cover 
retreat.  They  leave  Hassan  i  Sabbah  in  a  third-floor 
room  subject  to  constant  insults  and  humiliations. 
They  steal,  bottle,  and  dole  out  addictive  love  in 
eye-droppers  of  increased  awareness  of  unpleasant 
or  dangerous  symptoms. 

the  answer:  Not  guilty,  beloved  Billbad.  There 
was  no  powerful  board  and  syndicate  to  subsidize 
Dr.  Benway's  attack  on  the  psilocybin  love  brigade. 
There  was  only  Jack  Leary  and  his  assistants  ready 
to  spring  to  their  borrowed-bicycle  fun-errands. 

The  superior  man  must  first  remove  stagnation  by 
stirring  up  public  opinion,  as  the  wind  stirs  every- 
thing, and  must  then  strengthen  and  tranquilize  the 
character  of  the  people,  as  the  mountain  gives 
tranquillity  and  nourishment  to  all  that  grows  in  its 
vicinity.  ( I  Ching  XVIII ) 


Open  letter  to  my  constitu- 
ents and  co-workers  if  any 
remain  for  the  end  of  it 


Don't  listen  to  Hassan  i 
Sabbah,  they  will  tell  you. 
He  wants  to  take  your  body 
and  all  pleasures  of  the 
body  away  from  you. 


Listen  to  us.  We  are  serving 
the  garden  of  delights  im- 
mortality cosmic  conscious- 
ness the  best  ever  in  drug 
kicks.  And  love  love  love  in 
slop  buckets. 


Billbad  the  Bailer  finally  escaped  the  Nova  ovens 
of  Harvard  confident  not  in  promise  but  in  fulfill- 
ment. He  never  let  his  knife-edge  style  dull  into  the 
wrong  game.  Lonely  in  his  third-floor  room,  he 
made  the  most  impressive  literary  debut  of  the  past 
century.  Lured  into  left  field,  he  scares  Grade  B 
psilocybin  out  of  behavioral  scientists  counting 
their  methodological  hallucinations. 

After  he  covered  his  retreat  from  the  colony  they 
so  disgracefully  mis-man-aged,  he  released  a  word- 
ment  of  urgent  warning  against  his  Harvard  hosts. 
Stay  out  of  Timothy  Leary's  Garden  of  Delights. 

Listen  to  us,  cried  the  Harvard  scientists.  We  are 
creating  the  Garden  of  Delights  on  the  Harvard 
payroll.  The  Best  Ever  in  Ivy  League  Drug  Kicks. 
love  love  love  in  slop  buckets.  How  does  that 
sound  to  his  awe-inspiring  artistry?  Hassan  the 
Hailer  takes  us  on  a  lively,  scary  broadening  jour- 
ney with  the  ticket  that  exploded.  Leaves  nothing 
for  the  reader  who  might  wish  love  sex  and  dream. 
At  the  immediate  risk  of  finding  himself  the  most 
unpopular  character  in  Cambridge,  he  creates'  a 
new  angle  of  vision.  Orders  total  resistance.  Beware 
of  Timothy's  ersatz  immortality.  Psilocybin  should 
be  banned  by  customs?  Did  we  monopolize  Immor- 


How  does  that  sound  to  you 
boys?  Better  than  Hassan  i 
Sabbah  and  his  cold  windy 
bodiless  rock?  Right? 


At  the  immediate  risk  of 
finding  myself  the  most  un- 
popular character  of  all  fic- 
tion— and  history  is  fiction 
— I  must  say  this:  Bring  to- 
gether state  of  news. 


Inquire  onward  from  state  to 
doer. 


Who  monopolized  love  sex 
and  dream?  Who  monopo- 
lized life  time  and  fortune. 
Who  took  from  you  what 
is  yours? 


230  00   The  Celestial  Messenger 


Now  they  will  give  it  all 
back?  Did  they  ever  give 
anything  away  for  nothing? 
Did  they  ever  give  any  more 
than  they  had  to  give? 


Did  they  not  always  take 
back  what  they  gave  when 
it  was  possible  and  it  al- 
ways was? 


Listen:  Their  garden  of  de- 
lights is  a  terminal  sewer 
— I  have  been  at  some 
pains  to  map  this  area  of 
terminal  sewage  in  the  so- 
called  pornographic  section 
of  naked  lunch  and  the  soft 
machine — their  immortality 
cosmic  consciousness  and 
love  is  second-run  grade  B 
shit. 


Their  drugs  are  poison  de- 
signed to  beam  in  orgasm 
death  and  Nova  ovens. 


Stay  out  of  the  garden  of 
delights. 


tality,  Billbad?  Did  we  monopolize  Cosmic  Con- 
sciousness? Did  we  force  Hassan  i  Sabbah  to  wear 
a  special  garb,  subject  to  constant  insults?  No.  Our 
tea,  too,  spilled  brown,  steamy  sweet  on  the  kitchen 
table  during  September  heatwave.  That's  who. 

Mr.  William  Lee  Bailer  is  a  very  worldly-wise, 
later-modern,  nothing-if-not-civilized  superb  writer. 
Who  ever  gave  any  more  than  they  had  to  give  to  a 
frightened  English  schoolboy  lonely  in  the  third- 
floor  bedroom?  Talk  louder,  Bill,  we  whispered. 

Are  we  so  complacent  about  the  present  state  of 
our  knowledge?  Are  you?  Covering  your  retreat 
from  Leary's  office  in  Cambridge,  were  you  heard  to 
say:  Their  Immortality  Cosmic  Consciousness  and 
love  Is  the  cry  of  every  as  yet  uninstitutionalized 
man  everywhere?  Is  the  love-pill  second-run  Grade 
B  shit?  Is  psilocybin  a  nasty  book?  Don't  you  mean 
lucid?  Whose  drugs  are  poison  designed  to  beam-in 
Orgasm  death?  And  Nova  Ovens?  Unmistakable. 
Bill  Burroughs,  you  right  superb.  For  all  your 
spiritual  strength,  you  invoke  no  fuzzy  alien  words. 
What  does  your  program  of  total  austerity  turn  to 
for  a  grasp?  Rub  out  the  word  forever?  Only  such 
extreme  wordments  can  rub  out  the  statemen  and 
all  their  statements;  illuminate  the  disgracefully 
managed  colony. 

For  the  seven  years  since  i960,  I  have  lived  in 
mis-man-aged  psychedelic  communes,  tribal  en- 
campments (although  we  didn't  grasp  the  tribal 
significance  for  a  long  time).  During  this  period 
several  thousand  people  have  hopefully  visited,  and 
over  two  hundred  have  like  Bill  Burroughs  actually 
moved  into,  our  houses.  All  but  two  dozen  have 
moved  on  because  the  human  chemistry  didn't 
work.  The  mysterious  alchemy  of  living  together. 
Our  insensitivity  to  Bill  Burroughs  points  up  impor- 
tant lessons  about  human  society. 

We  are  tribal  animals.  Primates.  We  have  lived 
together  in  small  bands  for  a  hundred  thousand 
years.  The  unit  of  human  survival— spiritual,  eco- 
nomic, political— is  the  clan.  The  clan  is  a  small 
collection  of  families. 

Each  of  us  has  built  into  his  genetic  code,  into 
the  very  cellular  essence  of  our  being,  tribal  com- 


Summer  1961  00   231 


mitments.  Tribal  style.  Tribal  mores.  Tribal  taboos. 
Tribal  sexual  rituals. 

Man  is  designed  by  over  two  billion  years  of 
divine  blueprinting  to  live  in  small  groups.  We 
were  not  built  to  live  in  the  insect  anonymity  of 
large  cities.  The  urban  empires  always  collapse. 

In  the  cities,  tribal  needs  and  tribal  styles  are 
concealed  by  the  plastic  uniformity.  It  is  only  when 
we  live  together  that  the  cellular  plan  emerges. 
There  are  countless  mythic  archetypes  which  deter- 
mine harmonious  or  disruptive  living  together.  Of 
these,  geographic  (racial)  and  sexual  factors  are 
the  most  important  in  the  formation  and  perpetua- 
tion of  the  tribal  commune.  Over  the  millennia 
these  two  factors— geography  and  sexual  style- 
have  operated  through  natural  selection.  Today,  in 
the  period  of  collapsing  empire,  we  are  faced  with 
the  problem  of  reforming  tribes.  Look  to  your 
ancestors  and  listen  to  your  sexual  messages  as  you 
select  your  tribe-members. 

There  are  mountain  people  and  shore  people. 
There  are  village  people  and  land  people.  Your 
national  and  racial  origins  are  preserved,  alive,  in 
your  neurological  and  cellular  equipment.  The 
basic  messages  of  blood  and  sperm  are  experienced 
in  every  detail  of  daily  life. 

Awareness  of,  and  delicate  sensitivity  to,  their 
ancient  styles  facilitate  harmonious  tribal  living  and 
rewarding  inter-tribal  contact.  Ignorance  of  racial 
and  sexual  tendencies  breeds  chaos. 

Civilized  people  are  tribal  people. 

Urban  people  are  usually  blind  to  the  essence 
differences  which  give  glorious  variety  to  organic 
existence  and  human  life. 

Bill  Burroughs  came  to  visit,  a  dignified,  sage, 
complex  genius-shaman-poet-guide  from  a  dif- 
ferent, but  sympathetic  tribe.  Our  obtuse  game- 
playing  paid  disrespect  to  him  and  his  clan. 

And  when  I  heard  the  poet  scold  me,  I  turned 
towards  him,  covered  with  such  shame  that  even 
now  it  circles  through  my  memory. 

When  you  return,  poet,  we  will  offer  you  the 
ancient  pipe  of  peace. 

Bill  Burroughs  is  one  of  the  few  word  works 


It  is  a  man-eating  trap  that 
ends  in  green  goo. 


Throw  back  their  ersatz  im- 
mortality. 


It  will  fall  apart  before  you 
can  get  out  of  the  big  store. 


Flush  their  drug  kicks  down 
the  drain. 


They  are  poisoning  and 
monopolizing  the  hallucino- 
genic drugs. 


Learn   to    make    it   without 
any  chemical  support. 


All  that  they  offer  is  a 
screen  to  cover  retreat  from 
the  colony  they  have  so  dis- 
gracefully mismanaged. 


To  cover  travel  arrange- 
ments so  they  will  never 
have  to  pay  the  constitu- 
ents they  have  betrayed  and 
sold  out. 


232  00   The  Celestial  Messenger 


(man-aged  or  totally  reverbished )   that  historians      Once    these    arrangements 

will  turn  to  for  a  grasp.  You  may  call  Hassan  to      ?£  c™P|e*  *!*  "'"  *i°" 
.  ,     r  „  .11  .  i     r     i  .       TT    i  r        tne  P|ace  UP  behind  them, 

right  tor  you.  You  will  stay  to  right  tor  him.  He  left 

Harvard,  bowing  three  times  and  disappeared  into 

his  characters. 

He  is  a  knife-edge  hero  undulled  by  rhetoric.  Yes, 

talk  louder,  Bill,  talk  louder. 


00 


WORK    ON    WHAT   HAS    BEEN    SPOILED 

Has  supreme  success. 

It  furthers  one  to  cross  the  great 

water. 
Before  the  starting  point,  three  days. 
After  the  starting  point,  three  days. 

(IChing) 


CQ 


£sd-The  Drop-Out  Drug: 

Od  H 

o£ 

is 

Fall  1961  §  3 

Guide:     Michael  hollingshead  g  Q 

Oracle:  XIV 


tr1 


Possession  in  Great  Measure  S3 


The  Clinging,  Flame 


The  Creative,  Heaven 


Fire  in  heaven  above: 

The  image  of  possession  in  great  measure. 

Thus  the  superior  man  curbs  evil  and  furthers 

good, 
And  thereby  obeys  the  benevolent  will  of 

heaven. 

(IChing) 


TRIP  12 


CAMBRIDGE  TRAVEL 
SERVICE 

32  ELLIOT  STREET 
CAMBRIDGE,  MASS. 
June  19,  1962 

Dear  Dr.  Leary: 

On  June  12th  a  Mr.  Michael 
Hollingshead  purchased  by 
personal  check  an  air  ticket 
to  Jamaica  using  your 
name  as  reference. 


Your  secretary  confirmed 
that  Mr.  Hollingshead 
worked  on  your  Harvard  re- 
search project. 


We  have  just  received  word 
from  the  bank  that  Mr.  Hol- 
lingshead's  account  is 
closed. 


We  would  appreciate  any 
information  you  could  give 
us  which  would  enable  us 
to  obtain  the  funds  owed  us. 

Sincerely  yours, 
J.  Everett  Finch 
Credit  Manager 

00 


Late  October  1961.  A  morning  of  long-distance 
phone  calls,  research  planning  meetings,  the  mail. 
A  letter  from  Allen  Ginsberg  in  Calcutta.  He's 
been  smoking  marijuana  at  the  burning  ghats  by 
the  Ganges.  Indian  holy  men  wear  beards,  long 
hair,  don't  wash,  smoke  pot.  Just  like  Greenwich 
Village.  Visionary  drop-outs  from  the  social  game. 
Looking  for  the  God  kick.  Meetings  with  Harvard 
students  writing  honors  theses,  appointments.  Dr. 
Leary,  there's  a  Michael  Hollingshead  on  the  line 
from  Oxford,  England,  wants  to  talk  to  you. 
So  may  I  introduce  to  you 

Bristly,  formal,  English  accent.  Dr.  Leary,  Mi- 
chael Hollingshead  here.  I  have  been  working  with 
Professor  G.  E.  Moore  at  Oxford— Mr.  Moore  sends 
his  fondest  greetings,  by  the  way.  There  are  many 
aspects  of  our  work  that  I  think  will  interest  you.  I 
wonder  if  it  would  be  possible  to  arrange  an  ap- 
pointment. Lunch?  Quite  so,  that  would  be  fine. 
Lunch  next  week  Tuesday.  Fine. 

The  fact  youve  known  for  all  these  years 
Michael  turned  out  to  be  a  series  of  surprises. 
Medium  height,  medium  bald,  medium-aged  man 
of  thirty.  His  voice  was  urbane.  His  face  twinkling, 
aristocratic  and  somehow  gross. 
He  dont  really  want  to  top  the  show 
But  I  thought  that  you  might  like  to  know 
That  the  singers  going  to  write  a  wrong 
Lunch  at  the  Faculty  Club  was  boring.  He  had 
little  to  say  about  G.  E.  Moore.   He  drank  two 
bottles  of  beer.  There  was  something  evasive  about 
the  conversation.  As  lunch  ended  he  told  me  that 
he  was  a  writer,  just  finishing  a  novel.  Oh,  what's  it 
about?  May  I  have  a  minute  to  tell  you?  Go  ahead. 
The  novel  is  about  a  bank  clerk  whose  ambition  in 
life  was  to  levitate.  For  years  he  studied  with  Oc- 
cult teachers,  yogis,  and  read  the  wisdom  of  the 

234 


Fall  1961  00    235 


East.  For  years  he  meditated  and  practiced  in  his 
room,  to  no  avail. 

Then  one  day  at  the  bank,  standing  behind  the 
tellers  window,  counting  pounds,  shillings,  and 
pence,  he  found  himself  lifting  slowly  from  the 
floor.  A  half-inch,  an  inch,  two  inches,  he  closed  his 
eyes  and  let  himself  drift.  When  he  opened  his  eyes 
he  was  two  feet  above  the  floor  just  about  to  soar 
up  beyond  the  grill.  With  quick  presence  of  mind 
he  reached  for  the  top  ledge  and  arrested  his 
upward  motion.  Quickly  he  yanked  himself  down 
to  the  ground,  glanced  around  nervously  to  make 
sure  nobody  had  seen  him,  and  stood  there  perspir- 
ing, shaking,  frightened,  and  exulting. 

After  a  minute  he  experimentally  released  his 
grasp  on  the  counter  and  felt  his  shoes  leaving  the 
ground.  He  reached  down  again  and  with  his  left 
hand  shoved  the  window-closed  sign  forward.  After 
five  minutes  he  felt  something  click  in  his  head.  He 
let  go  of  the  counter  and  felt  the  reassuring  pull  of 
gravity  hold  his  feet  to  the  floor. 

He  thought  of  nothing  else  that  night.  At  the 
same  hour  the  next  day,  while  he  was  counting  out 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  he  felt  energy  surging 
through  his  body,  and  quietly  the  room  began  to 
slide  downward.  For  the  next  fifteen  minutes  he 
carried  on  his  work  with  one  foot  hooked  under- 
neath the  bottom  bar  of  the  calculating  machine. 

That  night  at  home,  through  meditation  deep- 
ened by  yoga,  he  tried  to  duplicate  the  levitation, 
but  nothing  happened.  The  following  day,  how- 
ever, just  after  lunch,  it  happened  again  and  this 
time,  to  his  horror,  it  persisted.  Fifteen  minutes, 
twenty  minutes,  a  half-hour,  an  hour,  he  clung  to 
the  window  with  one  foot  wedged  under  the  calcu- 
lating machine.  He  was  suffused  with  a  feeling 
of  lightness.  Delightful  electrical  forces  surged 
through  his  body.  A  feeling  of  exultation  and  reve- 
lation washed  over  him,  but  under  all  was  the 
nagging  worry,  what  was  he  going  to  do?  If  he 
relaxed,  gave  in  to  the  ecstatic  flow,  he  knew  that 
he  would  slowly  spiral  upward  in  his  white  shirt 
and  flowered  tie,  and  charcoal-gray  business  suit, 
before  the  astonished  and  angry  eyes  of  the  bank 
employees,  and  the  customers.  Perspiring  and  trem- 


MICHAEL  HOLLINGSHEAD: 

C/O  General  Delivery 
Old  Town 
Jamaica 

My  dear  Tim, 

It  has  been  a  busy  day  in 
the  garden  and  hardly  one 
that  I  would  care  to  repeat 
too  often. 


The  lawn  was  in  a  terrible 
state,  with  weeds  all  over 
the  place  and  large  patches 
of  dried  grass  which  called 
attention  to  the  many 
months  of  neglect  by  the 
previous  tenants. 


As  it  was,  our  difficulties 
were  further  complicated  by 
an  almost  total  lack  of 
proper  equipment;  indeed, 
were  it  not  for  palm  leaves, 
which  we  used  in  place  of 
rakes,  I  doubt  whether  we 
could  have  made  much 
progress. 


However,  working  against 
the  clock,  we  hope  to  have 
the  place  tidied  up  before 
the  Independence  celebra- 
tions begin,  on  August  6. 


Others,  less  attentive  to 
floral  decoration  but  more 
efficient  in  matters  of  grow- 
ing plants,  have  had  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  difficulty  re- 
cently from  the  authorities. 


236  00   The  Drop-Out  Drug 


I  understand  that  ganja,  an 
Arawak  word  for  pot,  is  il- 
legal here.  Despite  my  as- 
surances to  the  press  and 
elsewhere  of  its  essentially 
religious  significance  I'm 
afraid,  however,  that  we  live 
in  an  age  of  superstition 
and  ignorance  and,  how- 
ever well  motivated  were 
the  actions  of  a  Mr.  Lloyd 
Scott  in  growing  ganja  in 
his  back  garden,  I  doubt 
whether  his  protests  at  its 
confiscation  by  the  police 
and  their  subsequent  ac- 
tion in  marching  him  to  the 
station  will  have  much  in- 
fluence with  the  local  mag- 
istrates, all  of  the  whom  are 
agreed  on  the  dangers  of 
having  people  blowing 
ganja:  "It  rots  both  the 
brain  and  the  soul." 


All  the  news  for  now. 


Please  drop  me  a  few  lines. 


We  are  both  well  and 
happy,  getting  more  than 
our  share  of  the  sun  and 
feeling  close  to  the  still 
centre  of  things. 

Warmest  regards  to  you, 
Michael 

00 


bling,  he  went  through  the  routines  of  business 
until  closing  time,  his  right  foot  holding  him  to  the 
floor.  Then  grasping  the  counter  so  that  his  knuckles 
blanched  white  with  the  force,  he  slowly  and  delib- 
erately walked  the  rectilinear  path  to  the  corner  of 
the  room.  Quickly  switching  with  his  left  hand  to 
grab  a  table  top  he  turned  to  the  door.  There  was 
one  agonizing  space  between  the  desk  and  the  door 
where  there  was  nothing  to  hold  onto.  He  bent 
down,  pretending  to  tie  his  shoelaces,  and,  with  a 
sudden  leap  launched  himself  and  soared  to  the 
doorknob,  which  he  was  only  just  able  to  catch  with 
his  right  hand  as  he  floated  past. 

The  rest  of  the  trip  home  to  his  apartment  was  an 
ecstatic  nightmare.  Never  was  the  sky  so  blue.  His 
eyes  were  microscopes  registering  the  jewel-like 
beauty  and  precision  of  the  sidewalks,  and  lamp 
posts.  He  was  a  fish  swimming  in  a  diamond- 
studded,  colorful  lagoon.  But  a  fish  with  one  in- 
cessant problem.  How  to  avoid  floating  up  through 
the  energy-charged  watery  environment  when  his 
role  and  social  duty  was  obviously  to  crawl  crablike 
along  the  lagoon  bottom. 

Holding  on  to  a  street  light,  he  hailed  a  cab.  A 
quick  transfer  of  hands  to  the  taxi  door.  Finally  into 
his  living  room  where  he  roped  himself  to  his  sofa. 
He  phoned  the  office  to  announce  a  two-week  sick 
leave.  A  call  to  his  fiancee  to  come  at  once. 

He  had,  it  seemed,  been  courting  a  beautiful 
young  woman  for  several  months.  A  certain  caution 
and  heavy  seriousness  on  his  part  inclined  her  to 
resist  his  advances.  But  now  he  announced  that  he 
had  taken  leave  of  his  job,  perhaps  not  to  return, 
and  that  he  was  headed  for  an  isolated  lake  in  the 
country.  Fascinated,  she  agreed  to  go  with  him. 
Here  perhaps  was  the  casual  and  careless  lover  she 
would  prefer. 

Their  room  in  the  country  inn  had  a  balcony 
which  opened  onto  the  lake  below.  They  dined 
there  with  candlelight,  the  champagne  glasses  glit- 
tering in  the  flickering  flame. 

The  meal  ended  and  with  a  caressing,  wrenching 
kiss,  she  moved  to  the  bathroom,  sending  back  a 
glance  at  the  four-poster  bed.  He  undressed  quickly 
with  one  hand  holding  the  mattress.  She  emerged 
from  the  bathroom  naked,  hair  loose  around  her 


Fall  1961  00    237 


shoulders,  and  he  reached  out  his  hands  to  embrace 
her.  And  then,  softly,  tenderly,  gently  turning  like  a 
balloon  on  a  summer  afternoon  at  the  sky  park,  he 
floated  up,  up,  beyond  her  outstretched  arms  and 
her  beautiful  face  now  transfigured  with  awe  and 
terror.  Up,  up,  to  the  ceiling  where  with  an  easy  jolt 
he  found  himself  pinned. 

Michael  Hollingshead  was  leaning  forward  with 
his  head  somewhat  bowed,  his  eyes  down,  his 
fingers  making  little  marks  on  the  table  cloth.  My 
cigarette,  untouched,  had  an  inch-long  ash.  Michael 
glanced  up.  His  eyes  caught  mine.  A  sudden  look  of 
amused  despair.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
raised  his  hands  in  studied  helplessness.  I  must 
apologize,  my  dear  chap.  I  didn't  mean  to  go  on 
boring  you  this  way.  Don't  be  silly.  Please  go  on.  A 
soft  smile  rippled  across  Michael's  face.  He  nodded 
and  dropped  his  head  again. 

She  stood  below,  aching,  naked  and  vulnerable. 
First  upset,  and  disbelieving.  Then,  as  he  ex- 
plained, lying  on  his  back  on  the  ceiling,  his  arms 
gesticulating  downward,  she  became  intrigued,  de- 
lighted. 

After  two  hours  she  was  sitting  on  a  chair  with 
her  legs  crossed,  smoking  and  crushing  cigarettes 
out  in  the  ash  tray.  He  lay  on  the  ceiling,  eyes 
closed,  filmy  with  sweat,  concentrating,  willing, 
meditating.  Finally,  she  moved  briskly  to  the  bath- 
room and  emerged  fully  dressed.  She  paused  at  the 
door,  Call  me,  when  you're  ready  to  come  down, 
she  said.  And  she  was  gone. 

His  arms  waved  after  her  like  tree  limbs  in  a 
wind  storm.  He  lay  spread-eagled  against  the 
white,  ash-gray,  paint-flaking  ceiling.  And  then  the 
tears  fell  and  collected  in  two  little  pools  on  the  bed 
below. 

By  this  time  I  was  half  an  hour  late  to  a  faculty 
meeting,  and  as  we  rushed  back  along  the  Cam- 
bridge streets,  Michael  quickly  and  with  a  certain 
frantic  pressure,  talked  to  me  about  LSD  experi- 
ments he  had  been  doing  in  New  York  with  a 
doctor.  The  importance  of  psychedelic  drugs.  He 
wanted  something  from  me  but  I  sloped  off  with  a 
quick  handshake.  Fascinating  lunch.  I  loved  your 
book  and  your  story.  Let's  do  it  again. 

I  forgot  about  the  episode.  The  following  Thurs- 


MICHAEL  HOLLINGSHEAD: 

19  Brompton  Square 
London,  SW3 
1st  Nov.  1962 

My  dear  Timothy, 

I  received  a  letter  from  the 
Parapsychology  Foundation 
this  morning,  cutting  me  off 
their  payroll. 


It  seems  that  they  were  sur- 
prised that  you  were  sur- 
prised to  be  informed  by 
them  that  I  had  a  grant  to 
write  a  paper  on  your  set- 
and-setting  theories,  etc. 
and  also  of  their  help  in 
getting  me  back  to  England 
from  Jamaica. 


I  think  it  is  now  my  turn  to 
be  surprised,  for  my  letters 
to  you  explained  all  of  this; 
in  fact,  in  my  August  letter 
I  recall  having  asked  you  to 
read  through  the  MS  before 
I  submitted  it. 


However,  the  issue  here  is 
not  whether  I  deceived  you 
or  not,  or  even  how  you 
view  what  I  think  about  the 
Harvard-Concord  project — 
it  is  your  persistent  refer- 
ence, to  other  people,  and 
most  probably  to  the  foun- 
dation officials  as  well,  to 
me  as  a  sort  of  'con-man' 
who  goes  around  trying  to 
trick  people  out  of  money, 
or  whatever. 


While  this  may  explain,  in 
a  limited  way,  something 
about  the  manner  in  which 
I  apparently  do  things,  it 
no  more  explains  the  truth 
of  what  I  really  am  and 
what  I  really  am  seeking  in 
life  than  to  also  say  of  me 
that  I  eat  bananas  for  phal- 
lic reasons. 


238  00   The  Drop-Out  Drug 


Both  are  valid  assumptions 
in  a  certain  context. 


As  I  understand  the  term,  a 
con-man  is  someone  whose 
progress  in  life  is  founded 
upon  a  desire — taken  for 
reality — to  get  something 
for  nothing,  a  person  whose 
behaviour,  moral  and  physi- 
cal, rests  not  on  seeking 
to  achieve  (as  the  spiritual 
masters  have  always  af- 
firmed) in  the  timeless  and 
eternal  'now,'  but  in  some 
Utopian  future;  a  person,  in 
brief,  who  lives  through  the 
present  because  of  the 
prospect  of  that  golden  age 
to  come. 


But  it  also  assumes  some 
kind  of  criminal  or  nasty 
intent. 


When  I  met  you  I  had  just 
got  back  from  a  month  of 
horror  and  emptiness  in 
Houston,  was  being  tempted 
by  my  wife  to  settle  again 
in  New  York  but  on  very 
different  terms  than  form- 
erly and  was  broke  and 
needing  a  job. 


You  were  very  kind  to  me 
at  a  point  when  nothing 
seemed  to  be  going  for  me, 
and  I  shall  always  be  grate- 
ful. 


day  I  had  a  busy  schedule— a  lecture  to  an  ad- 
vanced seminar  of  undergraduates,  from  ten  to 
twelve,  and  then  a  one-o'clock  plane  from  Boston  to 
New  York.  After  the  lecture  I  rushed  to  the  office 
and  found  my  secretary  standing  with  a  peculiar 
look  on  her  face,  handing  me  a  letter.  It  was  written 
in  tiny,  hardly  legible  script.  He  had  spent  the  week 
living  alone  in  a  dreary  room  in  Cambridge.  He  had 
come  to  Harvard  because  I  was  the  only  person  in 
the  world  who  could  help  him.  He  knew  how 
vulgar  and  gamelike  his  ploy  might  seem,  that  he 
would  kill  himself  if  I  could  not  see  him  and  help 
him,  but  the  insight  into  his  own  vulgarity  was 
simply  an  added  wound  to  a  riddled  and  desperate 
organism.  He  would  await  my  call  at  the  rooming 
house  number  until  five  that  afternoon.  And  after 
that,  good  luck  and  good-bye.  Well,  this  was  a 
pretty  crisis,  coming  when  I  had  exactly  twenty 
minutes  before  leaving  for  the  airport.  I  dispatched 
George  Litwin,  who  was  part  of  what  we  at  that 
time  called  our  Love  Engineer  Group,  to  pick  up 
Michael  at  his  rooming  house.  The  plan  was  that  I 
could  talk  to  him  on  the  way  to  my  plane. 

They  were  back  immediately.  With  George  at  the 
wheel,  and  Michael  in  the  back  seat  we  headed  for 
the  airport.  The  immediate  problem  seemed  simple 
enough.  He  was  broke,  without  a  job,  separated 
from  his  wife  and  child  for  financial  reasons.  Are 
you  sure  that's  all?  I  asked.  He  looked  at  me  once 
again  with  the  amused  horror  look,  and  shrugged, 
Well,  there  are  all  the  cosmic  problems,  of  course, 
but  if  I  could  get  a  base  with  my  wife  and  family 
I'd  feel  up  to  dealing  with  the  rest. 

That  sounded  fair  enough,  so  a  quick  plan  was 
evolved.  Michael  could  take  my  car  and  drive  to 
New  York,  pick  up  his  wife  that  very  evening  and 
come  back.  They  could  stay  on  the  third  floor  of  my 
house.  His  wife  could  be  housekeeper  until  he  got  a 
job.  I  could  sense  in  Michael's  body  a  subtle  relief, 
like  a  poker  player  whose  bluff  had  not  been  called. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  airport,  Michael  followed 
and  pulled  me  aside  for  a  minute  between  the  car 
and  the  Eastern  Airlines  door.  There's  one  thing  I 
should  tell  you.  I  know  you  have  friends  in  New 
York.  I  know  you're  a  friend  of  Winston  London, 


Fall  1961  00    239 


and  I  think  you  should  know  that  for  the  last  six 
months  I  have  worked  very  closely  with  him.  We 
parted  on  very  bad  terms.  He'll  say  wicked  things 
about  me  which  I'm  sure  you're  sophisticated 
enough  to  realize  emerge  from  his  state  of  con- 
sciousness rather  than  the  realities  of  mine.  In- 
triguing, but  I  was  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  to 
pursue  it.  Winston  London  was  a  famous  New 
York  multimillionaire  with  a  good  heart  and  ten- 
derly high-minded  ideals.  He  was  continually  being 
victimized  by  fourth-rate  low-level  promoters. 

Cpl.  Michael's  Lonely  Dope  Club  Band 

The  fact  you've  known  for  all  these  years 

In  New  York  I  went  first  to  the  East  Side  apart- 
ment of  Max  Fox,  a  five-hundred-year-old  teen-age 
Levantine  confidant  at  the  Sultan's  court,  some- 
times in  favor,  sometimes  in  disgrace.  Always  wise, 
shrewd,  funny,  complaining,  completely  involved  in 
extravagant  baroque  plans  to  turn-on  the  Sultan,  to 
turn-on  the  harem,  to  turn-on  himself. 

In  his  current  casting  Max  was  a  Hollywood 
publicity  man.  Friend  and  adviser  to  the  most 
beautiful  women  in  New  York.  Max's  delight  was  to 
drive  around  in  a  chauffeured  Cadillac  with  two 
tall  slender  blondes,  champagne  cooler,  stereo- 
phonic sound,  and  the  ashtrays  loaded  with 
Panama  red.  Until  the  bills  came  due  and  the 
Cadillac  no  longer  drew  up  to  his  door.  There  was 
never  a  shortage  of  interesting  men  and  beautiful 
girls  in  Max's  flat.  He  performed  one  of  the  most 
valuable  social  functions  in  any  complex  urban 
society.  His  apartment  was  communications  center 
for  the  most  interesting  people  in  New  York.  The 
price  of  admission  was  beauty  or  power  or  talent. 
And  you  were  never  allowed  to  promote  or  come 
on.  That,  after  all,  was  the  privilege  of  the  house. 

It's  wonderful  to  be  there 

It's  certainly  a  mill 

So  many  lovely  customers 

Max  met  me  at  the  door.  As  I  walked  to  the  sofa  I 
remembered  that  Winston  London  was  one  of 
his  friends.  Max,  can  you  do  me  a  favor?  I've  just 
met  a  man  whom  I'm  about  to  get  involved  with. 
He  says  he  knows  Winston  London.  And  there 
seems  to  be  some  friction  in  the  relationship.  Could 


And  when  I  knew  you  better 
I  told  you  about  the  insti- 
tute business  in  New  York, 
detailing  the  passage  of 
events  which  culminated  in 
having  to  face  and  deal 
with  the  New  York  gang- 
sters. 


What  I  didn't  tell  you — it 
seemed  rather  flat  after 
the  stories  of  nightly  visits 
from  the  juke-box  czar — 
was  that  I  always  used  the 
institute  to  do  for  others 
what  the  Parapsychology 
Foundation  did  for  me. 


And  there  was  also  room  in 
the  institute  for  'improb- 
able' people  like  beatniks, 
paintingless  painters,  bar- 
room pundits,  and,  with  the 
contrivance  of  the  editor  of 
The  Hobo  News,  for  old 
men  who  only  vaguely 
knew  where  they  were  at 
and  needing  some  funds. 


Why,  then,  should  I  also 
have  got  myself  involved 
with  people  like  the  gang- 
sters. 


Why  not? 


Why,  too,  should  I  bother 
with  hobos,  millionaires, 
Harvard  psychologists,  and 
impecunious  art  students. 


The  answer  is  that  I  do  like 
people — and  there  is  the 
corollary,  I  want  people  to 
like  me. 


240  00   The  Drop-Out  Drug 


While  in  general  I  am  a 
happy  person — I  spend  my 
life  and  earn  my  living  do- 
ing what  I  want  to  do — bits 
have  been  chipped  off  my 
heart  these  past  twelve 
months. 


These  are  what  I  am  at- 
tempting to  put  back  here  in 
London,  where  I  feel  at 
home  again. 


Since  in  all  probability  this 
will  be  my  last  letter  to  you 
— I  know  how  sensitive  you 
become  and  also,  from  the 
precedents  of  the  past,  you 
enjoy  (in  a  strictly  psycho- 
logical sense  though  not,  I 
suspect,  in  a  larger,  Di- 
onysian  sense)  getting 
friends  to  reject  you — I 
want  to  get  it  all  down,  out, 
and  finished. 


In  the  first  place  I  have 
never  'conned'  anyone  in 
the  criminal  sense. 


However  much  I  enjoy  giv- 
ing, adding,  and  living  this 
image,  it  is  not  factually 
true. 


Because  I  live  like  a  gang- 
ster, i.e.  on  the  fringe  of  so- 
ciety, it  is  to  be  expected 
that  I  shall  be  critically  in- 
terpreted by  others  for 
whom  life  is  one  long 
mountain  path. 


But  I  fail  to  understand  why 
you  should  want  to  do  so. 


you  get  a  line  on  that  for  me?  Max  was  delighted. 
He  reached  for  a  phone  and  dialed  a  number.  It 
was  a  delicatessen  owned  and  operated  by  a  former 
bodyguard  of  Winston  London.  First  there  was  a 
conversation  about  a  case  of  Scotch  and  some 
salami  and  cheese.  Max's  voice  and  the  voice  of  the 
invisible  bodyguard  crackled  through  the  room 
from  a  special  telephone  amplifier  system.  The 
slightest  whisper  on  the  phone  would  be  heard  in 
loud  volume  in  any  part  of  the  apartment.  After  the 
ordering,  Max  got  down  to  business.  Tony,  do  you 
by  chance  know  anything  about  a  fellow  named 
Hollingshead?  Says  he  used  to  know  Winston. 
There  was  a  brief  pause  and  then  tough  gangster 
prose  came  booming  out  of  the  amplifier.  Hollings- 
head, that  no-good,  two-bit,  English  con  man.  Lis- 
ten, what  do  you  have  to  do  with  him?  Whatever  it 
is,  drop  it.  Max's  voice  came  back  calming,  ex- 
plaining that  he  was  doing  a  favor  for  a  friend. 
Tony's  voice  continued.  Listen,  that  scoundrel 
caused  Winston  more  trouble  than  any  ten  of  the 
last  con  men  that  have  come  down  Fifth  Avenue. 
He's  got  a  record  on  the  continent  as  long  as  your 
arm.  He's  wanted  by  Interpol.  He's  bad  news, 
buddy.  Stay  away  from  that  Hollingshead. 

The  one  and  only  Silly  Fears 

Max  turned  to  me  pleased  with  the  efficiency  of 
his  intelligence  service.  Well,  that's  the  end  of  that 
character.  I'm  not  so  sure,  Max.  That's  just  the 
opinion  of  one  guy,  a  nice  enough  person,  no 
doubt,  but  one  whose  spiritual  focus  may  leave 
something  to  be  desired.  Let  me  get  another  read- 
ing on  him  from  someone  else.  I  reached  for  the 
phone  and  dialed  George  Litwin,  back  in  Cam- 
bridge. George  was  going  to  take  Michael  back  to 
his  home  for  dinner  before  he  started  out  in  my  car 
for  New  York,  and  I  wanted  to  get  George's  im- 
pressions about  this  mysterious  stranger.  In  a  few 
seconds  George's  voice  reverberated  through  the 
room.  What  happened  with  Michael,  I  said. 
George's  words,  chuckling,  energetic,  always  en- 
thusiastic, bouncing  around  the  room.  It  all  went 
great,  Tim.  He's  a  fascinating  guy,  with  a  great 
imagination.  He's  pretty  screwed  up  and  needs 
help.  But  he's  seen  a  lot  of  things.  He's  taken  LSD 


Fall  1961  00    241 


many,  many  times.  He'll  probably  teach  us  a  lot. 
Do  you  think  we  did  the  right  thing  in  inviting  him 
to  stay  at  my  house?  Absolutely,  said  George.  We 
can't  do  anything  but  learn  from  him. 

That  the  swingers  going  to  swing  along 

And  he  wants  you  all  to  sing  a  song 

Then  I  quickly  sketched  in  for  George  the  report 
we  had  just  received  from  the  bodyguard.  Well, 
Tim,  I'm  sure  that  a  lot  of  what  this  bodyguard 
says  is  true.  I'm  sure  that  Michael  has  had  a 
checkered  career  in  the  past  in  situations  where 
money  and  conning  is  involved.  But  what  can  he 
possibly  con  us  out  of?  We  have  nothing  material  to 
lose  and  our  only  ambitions  are  scientific  and  celes- 
tial. How  can  he  possibly  hurt  us?  Even  if  he  is  a 
rascal,  isn't  it  our  business  to  rehabilitate  people? 
Can't  trust  and  love  applied  judiciously  bring  about 
any  change  we  want.  I  say,  if  we  can't  work  with 
Michael  and  use  his  obvious  creativity  and  enjoy 
his  obvious  humor  and  learn  from  his  experiences, 
we  might  as  well  go  back  to  the  run-of-the-mill 
business  of  college  professors.  That's  exactly  my 
conclusion,  I  said.  See  ya,  George,  and  I  hung  up. 
Max  had  a  quizzical  look  on  his  face. 

So  let  me  introduce  to  you 

The  one  and  only  Silly  Fears 

And  Cpl.  Michael's  Lonely  Dope  Club  Band 

Michael  and  his  wife  and  child  arrived  and  that 
lasted  about  ten  days.  Michael  spent  most  of  the 
time  out  of  the  house  vaguely  looking  for  a  job.  But 
I  got  an  uneasy  feeling  after  a  while  that  he  was 
spending  his  afternoons  either  in  barrooms  or  high 
on  LSD  in  the  Boston  Museum.  His  wife  suddenly 
announced  that  she  was  leaving  because  of  his 
insistence  that  she  persuade  her  father  to  cash  in 
some  savings  bonds. 

I  remember  the  scene  when  the  taxi  came  to  pick 
up  Michael's  wife  and  child.  We  stood  an  awkward 
foursome  at  the  door,  and  as  they  left,  two  tears 
trickled  down  Michael's  face.  It  was  moving, 
pathetic,  poignant,  but  there  was  one  thread  of 
doubt.  Was  it  an  act?  If  it  was,  it  was  so  good  it 
could  only  command  respect. 

In  the  next  few  weeks  I  got  to  know  Michael 
better,  but  not  much  better.  He  got  a  job  in  the 


Why  it  has  become  neces- 
sary for  you  to  say  to 
people  that  the  group  sup- 
ported me  for  seven  or 
eight  months  when,  in  real- 
ity, not  only  was  I  working 
at  Concord  on  Mondays 
and  Thursdays,  but  I  would 
also  help  out  in  a  number 
of  small  ways,  help  you  run 
sessions,  work  positively 
toward  your  professional 
and  private  goals. 


More  exactly,  I  played  your 
game  with  you  and  not  my 
own,  for  the  demand  of  the 
situation  pre-empted  such  a 
possibility,  and  to  continue 
to  stay  on  I  had  become  a 
nursemaid  to  your  ideas 
and  an  odd-job  man  in  the 
project. 


It  was  an  enjoyable,  tre- 
mendously rewarding  ex- 
perience— but  it  was  not 
what  I  would  want  for  my- 
self for  the  rest  of  my  life, 
which  we  all  conceded. 


I  was  paid  a  salary  for  this 
in  the  months  of  January — 
February  $400  a  month,  of 
which  you  had  half  for 
board  and  accommodation. 


From  March  to  the  end  of 
May  I  was  given  pocket- 
money,  and  $200  toward  my 
fare  home. 


242  00   The  Drop-Out  Drug 


I  also  take  a  very  dim  view 
of  the  rumour  you  are  put- 
ting out  to  one  and  all  that 
I  suddenly  became  para- 
noid— I  was,  certainly, 
angry  with  the  way  certain 
events  of  my  life  had  be- 
come altered  in  the  retell- 
ing, but  the  evidence  was 
real  and  not,  as  now  you 
seem  to  have  convinced 
yourself,  illusory — or  that  I 
am  circulating  vile  rumours 
about  little  Dickie,  threat- 
ened to  go  to  the  prison 
to  get  prisoners  to  black- 
mail him,  etc. 


Now  this  is  not  only  out  of 
pattern  but  is,  in  the  very 
real  sense  of  the  set-up  at 
Concord — which  both  of  us 
understand — quite  impos- 
sible. 


It  has  as  much  basis  for 
reality  as  saying  I  continu- 
ally seek  sexual  satisfaction 
through  orgies. 


For  while  this  is  an  in- 
triguing daydream,  the  real- 
ity is  that  all  the  time  I  was 
living  with  you  I  hardly  ever 
went  out  in  the  evenings — 
a  necessary  prerequisite  for 
the  orgiast — and  the  near- 
est I  ever  came,  or  wanted 
to  come,  to  an  orgy  was  the 
day  you  tumed-on  the 
church  ministers. 


So  it  all  goes,  I  suppose. 


Each  of  us  upsetting  either 
ourself  or  somebody  else, 
the  incessant  see-saw  of 
the  conscious  mind  which 
in  truth  we  try  to  escape 
with  these  drugs  in  the 
hope  of  finding  ourselves  in 
eternity-on-earth. 


Harvard  Square  Bookstore,  dutifully  took  the  bus 
from  Newton  Center  at  7:30  every  morning  and 
would  drop  by  my  office  when  the  store  closed  at  6 
p.m.  We  would  have  a  glass  of  sherry  and  drive 
back  home.  Every  fourth  night  he  would  ask  if  he 
could  bring  a  girl  home  for  dinner.  His  dates  were 
strange,  thin  ladies  with  long  hair,  whom  he  would 
pick  up  as  they  browsed  through  the  book  stacks. 
He  loved  to  take  psilocybin,  although  he  was 
patronizing  in  comparing  the  mushrooms  with 
LSD,  the  stronger  psychedelic  drug  which  he  had 
used  extensively  in  New  York,  where  a  physician 
friend  of  his  was  doing  research. 

He  told  a  funny  story  about  his  first  LSD  experi- 
ence. He  had  smoked  marijuana  and  hashish  regu- 
larly and  when  he  heard  about  LSD  he  contacted 
his  medical  friend  and  persuaded  him  to  write  a 
research  proposal  using  LSD  on  amoeba,  bacteria, 
and  virus  cells.  The  drug  came  in  a  one-gram 
package.  Michael  and  his  friend  the  doctor  puzzled 
over  the  problem  of  how  to  divide  the  powdered 
gram  of  LSD  into  the  one-hundreth  of  a  million 
units  which  made  up  a  standard  dose  of  the  incred- 
ibly powerful  drug.  They  finally  decided  to  mix  the 
drug  in  powdered  sugar  which  they  wet  down  with 
water  and  spread  out  on  a  wide  piece  of  wax  paper. 
There  were  10,000  doses  in  a  small  rectangle  of  wet 
sugar  on  the  kitchen  table.  At  first  they  drew  a  line 
down  the  middle.  That  made  5,000  on  the  left  and 
5,000  on  the  right.  They  they  cut  a  line  with  a  knife 
horizontally  to  quarter  the  supply.  And  then,  by 
continual  slices  with  the  knife  they  divided  the 
stache  down  to  usable  doses.  They  figured  that  one 
teaspoon  made  a  double  dose.  This  calibration 
established,  they  carefully  scooped  the  paste  into 
jars.  When  this  was  finished,  there  was  the  problem 
of  what  to  do  with  the  sticky  residue  on  the  wax 
paper.  Michael  reached  down  and  tore  the  sheet  of 
wax  paper  in  half,  and  stuffed  it  in  his  mouth.  His 
friend  the  doctor  did  the  same. 

They  knew  intellectually  about  the  awesome  po- 
tency of  LSD.  They  knew  logically  that  the  in- 
visible amount  of  residue  they  had  swallowed  was 
a  few  hundred  millionths  of  a  gram,  but  never 
having  taken  the  eerie  chemical  before,  they  were 


w. 


fL4 


/ 


Mm 


244  00   The  Drop-Out  Drug 


Yet  stay  around  to  concili- 
ate the  local  divinity  and 
by  that  become  all  too 
mortal. 


I  genuinely  feel,  though, 
that  in  spite  of  everything, 
the  universe  is  good. 


Not  perhaps  good  as  op- 
posed to  bad,  but  a  sort  of 
goodness  which  encom- 
passes both  good  and  bad 
at  the  same  time. 


Love, 
Michael 


00 


MICHAEL  HOLLINGSHEAD: 

Hadley  Down  House 

Pinefield 

Battle,  Sussex 

26th  November,  1962 

My  dear  Timothy, 

Yet  another  change  of  ad- 
dress— this  time,  for  several 
months. 


I  have  taken  a  lease  on  an 
old,  rambling  house  near 
the  coast,  with  views  of 
woods  and  fields  and  nar- 
row lanes. 


It  is  here  that  I  hope  to  see 
the  fruits  of  my  labours. 


I  would  hope  that  we  might 
preserve  some  harmony  in 
our  relationship  by  laugh- 
ing off  my  dark  moods  and 
melodramatic  postures. 


completely  unprepared  for  the  effect  of  what  was 
perhaps  ten  normal  doses.  The  effect  hit  suddenly, 
and  for  five  hours  the  two  of  them  lay  back  para- 
lized  on  kitchen  chairs,  their  eyes  bulging,  com- 
pletely severed  from  their  bodies,  from  their  minds, 
from  normal  reality.  Helplessly  spinning  through 
cosmic  landscapes,  unable  to  speak  or  move,  com- 
municating only  by  a  shining  powerless  eyeball 
contact,  like  two  astronauts  drifting  helplessly 
through  space,  or  two  men  caught  in  diving  suits 
miles  below  the  surface. 

Since  that  time,  Michael's  consciousness,  his 
thinking  and  his  actions,  were  nothing  but  exten- 
sions of  that  trip.  He  had  died,  spun  out  into  the 
richness  of  interior  space,  had  unraveled  the  riddle 
of  the  cosmic  joke  and  was  now  cautiously,  incredu- 
lously, comically,  moving  through  the  marionette 
show  of  normal  reality. 

He  was  very  eager  for  me  to  take  LSD,  but  I 
resisted  the  idea.  Everything  I  had  heard  about 
lysergic  acid  sounded  ominous  to  me.  The  mush- 
rooms and  peyote  had  grown  naturally  in  the 
ground  and  had  been  used  for  thousands  of  years 
in  wise  Indian  cultures.  LSD,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  a  laboratory  product  and  had  quickly  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  doctors  and  psychiatrists.  Then, 
too,  I  was  scared.  The  sacred  mushrooms  were  my 
familiar  territory.  I  had  them  harnessed  up  to  my 
brand  of  revelation  and  ecstasy.  It  was  obvious  that 
the  more  powerful  LSD  swept  you  far  beyond  the 
tender  wisdom  of  psilocybin.  Like  everyone  else,  I 
was  both  fascinated  and  frightened  by  the  lysergic 
lore. 

Michael  invited  me  one  night  up  to  his  bedroom 
and  took  from  his  dresser  a  mayonnaise  jar  packed 
with  the  moist  sugar  paste.  There  it  is,  he  said.  The 
key  to  miracle  and  meaning.  When  are  you  going  to 
take  it?  I  shook  my  head.  I'm  having  trouble 
enough  understanding  the  sacred  mushrooms. 
Sometime  I'll  take  your  LSD,  but  I'm  not  ready 
now.  He  laughed.  Psilocybin,  the  child's  toy  of  the 
Indians.  After  you've  taken  LSD  you'll  view  psilo- 
cybin as  I  do.  Take  a  triple  dose  and  watch  tele- 
vision. You  change  the  black  and  white  to  color. 

In  early  December,  Maynard  and  Flo  Ferguson 
came  up  for  the  weekend.  Maynard  was  playing  in 


Fall  1961  00    245 


a  Boston  dance  hall.  It  was  an  easy,  pleasant  week- 
end. Flo  did  beautiful  things  around  the  house  and 
Maynard  told  funny  stories  about  the  band  busi- 
ness. I  had  made  it  a  rule  that  there  was  to  be  no 
grass  smoking  in  the  house  and  they  would  leave 
with  Michael  and  turn-on  while  driving  around  the 
neighborhood.  They  were  planning  to  leave  for 
New  York  about  five  o'clock  on  Sunday  afternoon. 
We  were  sitting  in  front  of  the  fireplace,  in  the 
living  room,  and  Michael  was  telling  LSD  stories. 
Flo  and  Maynard's  interest  perked  up.  The  next 
thing  I  knew  Michael  was  bounding  downstairs 
with  the  mayonnaise  jar  and  a  spoon.  A  tablespoon, 
I  noticed,  overflowing.  I  was  listening  to  records 
and  not  paying  too  much  attention,  until  after 
about  half  an  hour  I  looked  up  and  I  saw  that 
Maynard  and  Flo  were  gone  from  this  world,  into 
some  sort  of  trance.  They  were  sitting  on  the  sofa 
motionless,  their  eyes  closed.  But  I  could  feel 
energy  emanating  from  their  bodies.  I  turned  down 
the  volume  on  the  record  player  and  sat  watching 
them.  After  about  fifteen  minutes  Flo  opened  her 
eyes  and  she  laughed.  It  was  not  a  nervous  or  a 
funny  laugh.  It  was  the  chuckle  of  someone  who 
was  dead  and  gone  and  sitting  on  some  heavenly 
mountain  top  and  looking  down  at  the  two  billion 
years  of  evolution  the  way  you'd  look  at  a  transient 
episode  in  a  children's  playground. 

She  looked  at  me  and  began  to  talk.  It  was  pure 
advaita  vedanta.  She  was  Krishna,  lecturing  Arjuna. 
She  was  reciting,  in  chuckling,  hip  Manhattanese, 
the  essence  of  Hindu  philosophy.  Maya.  Nondual- 
ity.  Reincarnation.  And  this,  mind  you,  coming 
from  little  Flo  Ferguson,  who  hadn't  finished  high 
school  and  had  never  read  a  philosophy  book  in  her 
life.  She  thought  Indians  wore  headdresses  and 
feathers.  Now  from  her  smiling  rosebud  lips  was 
pouring  the  most  powerful  religious  statement  I 
had  ever  heard  in  my  life.  Timothy,  you've  got  to 
take  this.  Man,  it's  the  beginning  and  the  end. 
You've  got  to  take  it. 

I  looked  over  and  Michael  was  observing  me, 
carefully,  with  a  smile  on  his  face.  He  raised  his 
eyebrows  and  shrugged.  Well?  I  looked  at  May- 
nard. He  was  glowing  quietly,  smiling  and 
nodding. 


No  doubt  remembering 
mainly  our  happier  mo- 
ments together,  I  was  gen- 
uinely surprised  when  I 
heard  about  your  conver- 
sations with  the  foundation 
directors. 


And  this  may  have  led  me 
into  some  egregious  blun- 
der. 


May  we  not  now  look  upon 
all  of  this  as  a  spiritual  ex- 
ercise— I  know  that  I  would 
personally  prefer  to  forget 
all  about  it  and  return  to  the 
friendlier,  more  colourful 
and  positive,  status  anti- 
quo. 


Yours, 
Michael 


00 


MICHAEL  HOLLINGSHEAD: 

My  dear  Timothy 

There  is  a  village  in  South 
England  remote  from  ambi- 
tion and  from  civilization; 
an  unvisited  oasis,  a  sym- 
bol of  what  some  say  is  re- 
served for  the  soul — a 
group  of  elms,  a  little  turn 
of  the  parson's  wall,  a  small 
paddock  beyond  the  grave- 
yard close,  tended  by  one 
man,  with  a  low  wall  of  very 
old  stone  guarding  it  all 
round,  a  pub,  a  cricket 
green  where  the  scent 
of  grass  in  summer  is 
breathed  only  by  those  who 
are  native  to  this  unvisited 
land. 


And  it  is  to  here  that  I  have 
lately  returned. 


246  00   The  Drop-Out  Drug 


I  have  left  the  possessive 
folds  of  the  American  Para- 
psychology Foundation — 
Moloch  and  Mammon,  Be- 
lial and  Beelzebub,  organ- 
ized under  their  chairman, 
Satan. 


So  Faustus  tells  them  that 
their  bargain  has  not  at- 
tracted him  because  the 
satisfactions  they  all  offer 
him  are  only  partial  and 
static  ones. 


The  trouble  with  the  foun- 
dation's executives  is  that 
they  are  stuck  .  .  .  for- 
ever playing  the  same 
played-out  hand. 


When  you  turn  out  fixedly  to 
get  it,  every  earthly  para- 
dise turns  into  something 
else  .  .  .  like  going  to  live 
in  a  poem  and  finding  it  a 
government  regulation  when 
you  get  there. 


Spring  thoughts;  nearing 
Easter  and  memories  of  last 
year's  Easter,  and  all  the 
fun  of  Newton  Center. 


I  hope  all  is  going  well  for 
you. 


I  think  of  you  a  lot. 


Remember  me,  please,  to 
those  who  know  me  and  are 
still  with  you. 

With  fondest  regards, 
Michael 

00 


Then  my  leader  said,  I  am  one  who  goes  below 
from  ring  to  ring  with  this  still  living  man.  It  is  my 
mission  here  to  show  him  hell.  ( Inferno  XII ) 

I  guess  this  is  the  time,  Michael,  I  said.  With 
quick  bounds  he  was  out  of  the  room,  and  I  could 
hear  his  tennis  shoes  rippling  up  the  stairs,  and 
he  returned  with  the  mayonnaise  jar,  and  the  table- 
spoon, heaped  to  overflowing  with  the  sugar  paste. 
George  Litwin,  just  about  to  leave  to  go  home  to 
supper,  was  sitting  next  to  me.  Michael  glanced  at 
him.  He  nodded.  Why  not?  and  took  his  spoonful. 

It  took  about  a  half -hour  to  hit.  And  it  came 
sudden  and  irresistible.  An  endless  deep  swampy 
marsh  on  some  other  planet  teaming  and  steaming 
with  energy  and  life,  and  in  the  swamp  an  enor- 
mous tree  whose  roots  were  buried  miles  down  and 
whose  branches  were  foliated  out  miles  high  and 
miles  wide.  And  then  this  tree,  like  a  cosmic 
vacuum  cleaner,  went  ssssuuuck,  and  every  cell  in 
my  body  was  swept  into  the  root,  twigs,  branches, 
and  leaves  of  this  tree.  Tumbling  and  spinning, 
down  the  soft  fibrous  avenues  to  some  central  point 
which  was  just  light.  Just  light,  but  not  just  light.  It 
was  the  center  of  life.  A  burning,  dazzling,  throb- 
bing, radiant  core,  pure  pulsing,  exulting  light.  An 
endless  flame  that  contained  everything— sound, 
touch,  cell,  seed,  sense,  soul,  sleep,  glory,  glorifying, 
God,  the  hard  eye  of  God.  Merged  with  this  puls- 
ing flame  it  was  possible  to  look  out  and  see  and 
participate  in  the  entire  cosmic  drama.  Past  and 
future.  All  forms,  all  structures,  all  organisms,  all 
events,  were  illusory,  television  productions  pulsing 
out  from  the  central  eye.  Everything  that  I  had  ever 
experienced  and  read  about  was  bubble-dancing 
before  me  like  a  nineteenth-century  vaudeville 
show.  My  illusions,  the  comic  costumes,  the  strange 
everchanging  stage  props  of  trees  and  bodies  and 
theater  sets.  All  spinning  out  from  the  momentary 
parts  of  the  central  God-eye-heart-penis-light. 

It  was  forty  years  ago  today 

Cpl.  Michael  taught  the  band  to  play 

They've  been  going  in  and  out  of  fash 

But  they're  guaranteed  to  be  a  smash 


248  00    The  Drop-Out  Drug 


MICHAEL  HOLLINGSHEAD: 

Excelsior  Scientific  Trust 
40  East  84th  Street 
New  York,  N.Y. 
20th  January  1964 

My  dear  Tim  and  all, 

It  may  be  all  right  to  keep 
yourself  to  yourself  up  in 
Millbrook  if  you're  eccen- 
tric or  a  genius;  it's  blokes 
like  us  wot  needs  the  help- 
ful enmity  of  intelligent 
friends. 


New  York  is  full  of  chickens 
on  electric  spits. 


This,  say  the  chickens,  is 
our  Auschwitz,  and  all  poul- 
try keepers  are  psycho- 
paths. 


Far-fetched  enough;  if  such 
ingenuity  were  confined  to 
chickens  one  would  hardly 
object,  but  it  pervades 
American  psychology,  blur- 
ring issues  and  ideas  in  a 
haze  of  ambiguity  every  bit 
as  thick  as  the  dripping  oil 
with  which  those  chickens 
are  cooking  in  windows  are 
baptized — one  might  almost 
add  as  methodically  sloppy, 
and  the  thought  as  well  as 
the  language  is  always  spill- 
ing over  into  society  and 
the  outside  world:  a  con- 
venient formula,  which 
seems  to  cover  every  sort 
of  human  experience,  stress 
or  contrast  in  man's  inner 
and  his  outer  life. 


This  experience  is  of  course  endless  and  inde- 
scribable. After  several  billion  years  I  found  myself 
on  my  feet  moving  through  a  puppet  show.  Where 
does  Timothy  Leary  belong  in  this  dance  of  illu- 
sion? I  thought  of  my  kids  and  walked  somehow 
upstairs  to  the  second-floor  landing  and  opened  the 
door  to  my  daughter's  room.  Susan  was  sitting  in 
bed,  the  classic  thirteen-year-old  with  her  hair  up  in 
curlers,  frowning  in  concentration  at  the  school 
book  in  her  lap,  while  rock-and-roll  music  blasted 
through  the  room.  It  was  pure  Saturday  Evening 
Post  Cover  Americana.  The  puppet  doll  teen-ager 
glanced  up.  Hi,  Dad.  She  was  biting  a  pencil  and 
looking  at  the  book.  I  slumped  against  the  wall, 
looking  with  amazement  at  this  marionette 
stranger,  from  assembly-line  America.  She  glanced 
up  again,  quickly.  Hi,  Dad,  what  would  you  like  for 
Christmas?  She  went  on  biting  the  pencil,  frowning 
at  the  book,  waving  slightly  at  the  beat  of  the 
music.  In  a  minute  she  looked  up  again.  Hi,  Dad,  I 
love  you. 

A  shock  of  terror  convulsed  me.  This  was  my 
daughter  and  this  was  the  father-daughter  game.  A 
shallow,  superficial,  stereotyped,  meaningless  ex- 
change of  Hi,  Dad,  Hi,  Sue,  How  are  you  Dad? 
How's  school?  What  do  you  want  for  Christmas? 
Have  you  done  your  homework?  The  plastic  doll 
father  and  the  plastic  doll  daughter  both  mounted 
on  little  wheels,  rolling  by  each  other  around  and 
around  on  fixed  tracks.  A  complete  vulgarization  of 
the  real  situation— two  incredibly  complex,  trillion- 
cell  clusters,  rooted  in  an  eternity  of  evolution, 
sharing  for  a  flicker  this  space-time  coordinate.  And 
offered  this  rare  chance  to  merge  souls  and  bring 
out  the  divinity  in  the  other,  but  desiccated  and 
deadened  into  the  Hi  Dad  Hi  Susan  squeaks. 

I  looked  at  her  beseechingly,  straining  for  real 
contact.  I  was  stunned  with  guilt. 

With  microscopic  clarity,  I  saw  the  egocentricity, 
the  sham  of  my  devoted-father  routine.  Is  it  too 
late,  can  I  come  back,  glorify  this  rare  trembling 
opportunity?  I  turned  and  slowly  walked  down- 
stairs to  the  front  hallway.  Eleven-year-old  Jack  sat 
on  the  floor  watching  television.  I  sat  down  next  to 
him.  Without  taking  his  eyes  from  the  tube  he  said, 
Hi,  Dad.  Jack,  Jack.  Great  program,  Dad.  Once 


Fall  1961   00    249 


again  the  piercing  realization  of  my  blind  misuse  of 
this  divine  Buddha  child. 

I  followed  his  gaze  to  the  television  set.  Jack 
Benny,  wise,  noble,  long-suffering  guru,  was  going 
through  a  routine,  about  death,  the  transience  of 
life.  Memories  from  my  boyhood— Fred  Allen,  Jack 
Pearl,  Will  Bogers,  Charlie  Chaplin.  Each  week  the 
cosmic  television  show  repeating  the  same  message, 
infusing  into  the  frail,  karmic  forms  of  Benny, 
Allen,  Rogers,  the  ancient  message,  comic  and 
tragic.  Don't  you  see?  It's  spinning  by  you,  blinding 
you.  Don't  you  catch  on?  You're  going,  you're 
going.  Use  the  few  seconds  that  remain. 

I  suddenly  knew  that  everything  is  a  message 
from  the  impersonal,  relentless,  infinite,  divine  in- 
telligence, weaving  a  new  web  of  life  each  second, 
bombarding  us  with  a  message.  Don't  you  see! 
You're  nothing!  Wake  up!  Glorify  me!  Join  me! 

Then  there  were  three  men  on  the  TV  screen. 
One  was  in  a  barber's  chair,  one  was  facing  him, 
the  other  had  his  back  turned.  The  third  man 
suddenly  wheeled  around  and  said,  looking  straight 
through  the  television  tube,  into  my  eyes,  You've 
been  dead  for  two  seconds. 

The  cosmic  playwright  uses  diverse  messages  to 
get  the  point  across.  It's  in  a  flower,  it's  in  the  light 
of  a  star  which  takes  millions  of  years  to  reach  your 
eyes.  Sometimes  for  the  stupid  he  even  writes  it  out 
in  words  in  a  television  drama,  for  those  whose 
obtuseness  can  only  be  opened  up  by  the  boob 
tube.  I'd  been  dead  for  two  seconds.  And  this  is 
what  hell  is  like.  I  could  look  back  over  the  past 
forty  years  with  chagrin,  with  pain  at  my  blindness. 
Every  second  presented  me  with  a  golden  chance 
to  tune  in,  to  break  through,  to  glorify,  to  really 
groove  and  dance  with  God's  great  song.  And  every 
second  of  every  minute  of  every  hour  of  every  day  I 
grimly  played  out  my  narrow  little  mental  chess- 
game.  The  action  was  still  continuing  on  the  tele- 
vision set,  but  my  consciousness  was  shrieking  in 
remorse.  Agonbite  of  inwit!  Waste!  Waste!  Fool! 
How  many  times  had  I  heard  the  message?  In  all 
the  great  religious  books,  in  all  the  poems,  every- 
place it  confronted  me.  Forget  yourself.  Tune  in  on 
the  big  picture. 

Then  I  heard  music.  I  looked  up  at  the  screen 


Here  in  New  York  we  are 
still  tolerated,  having  a 
number  of  respectable  peo- 
ple who  support  our  work 
with  the  lenience  usually 
displayed  towards  the 
crimes  committed  by  mo- 
torists. 


We  have  about  as  much  the 
same  seclusion  and  pro- 
tection, however,  as  the 
brothel  areas;  but  then  per- 
haps the  infraction  of  the 
laws  in  obtaining  the  ma- 
terial is  part  of  the  inherent 
pleasure. 


The  regret  is  not  that  LSD 
disturbs  or  shocks  but  that 
it  bores. 


Best  wishes, 
Michael 


00 


MICHAEL  HOLLINGSHEAD: 

Excelsior  Scientific  Trust 

New  York 

18th  December  1963 

The   Pavilion   of  the    Mind 

Exhibit 

New  York  World's  Fair 

1964-1965 


The  Mind  Pavilion  is  the 
culminating  point  of  two 
years  of  hard  speculation 
by  its  originators. 


250  00    The  Drop-Out  Drug 


It  is  impossible  to  avoid  im- 
plicit financial  judgments 
about  an  enterprise  that 
must  always  generate  a 
natural  public  interest,  even 
despite  itself. 


We  shall  not  try. 


We  know  it  is  a  marketable 
idea. 


A  last  word  about  immedi- 
ate plans. 


The  aim  has  been  to  pro- 
duce a  show  as  dignified, 
attractive  and  pleasure-giv- 
ing as  any  that  has  been 
planned  for  the  World's 
Fair. 


We  have  created  what  we 
honestly  believe  is  an  ex- 
hibit both  contemporary 
and  exciting,  something 
that  will  encourage  intense 
interest  among  the  many 
tens  of  millions  who  are  ex- 
pected to  visit  the  fair. 


There  is  of  course  a  natural 
public  appetite  for  mystery: 
People  want  to  hear  of 
some  unknown  thresholds 
just  beyond  their  certain 
knowledge  of  which  travel- 
ers' tales  can  be  told — 
with  their  friends,  neigh- 
bors, business  colleagues 
hearing  about  an  experi- 
ence which  has  enriched 
the  teller's  knowledge,  yet 
one  which  they  have  not 
yet  shared. 


and  saw  Doris  Day  leaning  towards  me,  her  hands 
beckoning.  What  was  she  singing?  The  second  time 
around,  I'm  so  glad  I  met  you,  the  second  time 
around.  It  suddenly  dawned  on  me,  that's  what 
death  is,  that's  what  hell  is.  It  just  keeps  going, 
there's  no  end  to  it.  You  have  your  first  chance  to 
touch  and  taste,  tissue,  direct  contact  with  God's 
energy,  and  then  when  that's  over,  a  second  time, 
you  repeat  the  whole  process,  but  it's  different. 
There's  a  plastic  film  between  you  and  the  divine 
process  around  you,  your  egocentricity,  your 
deadening  mind  has  created  a  plastic  hell.  That's 
the  meaning  of  ghosts  and  anguished  spirits, 
doomed  for  eternity  to  exist,  separated  from  life, 
that  precious,  fragile  gift  that  we  squander  every 
second  of  this  so-called  mortal  reality.  The  second 
time  around.  Second  time,  it's  the  carbon  copy.  One 
little  interval  out  of  step.  This  time  you  are  one 
vibration  beat  behind  that  ecstatic  intersection 
which  the  living  call  life  and  which  the  tormented 
call  paradise. 

Later,  I  swam  into  the  kitchen.  There  was  a  book 
on  the  table.  I  flipped  it  open.  In  a  second  I  saw  the 
history  of  every  word  on  the  page  tracing  back, 
back,  back,  back,  to  the  beginnings  of  written  lan- 
guage. Back  down  to  one  sentence,  The  death  of 
the  father,  morte  du  pere,  and  in  that  sentence, 
boiled  and  bubbled  down  to  the  essence  of  the  one 
word,  morte,  there  it  was  again,  the  grim  con- 
frontation. 

I  sat  on  the  kitchen  floor,  looking  at  my  body,  my 
skin  of  delicately  treated  leather,  exquisitely  carved 
but  dead.  I  saw  plastic  veins,  blue  and  pink,  and  I 
saw  celluloid  fingernails.  My  mind  was  spinning 
like  a  computer  that  had  no  connection  with  any- 
thing live— no  flesh,  no  cell,  no  sweat,  no  smell.  I 
had  lost  my  senses,  morte.  Death.  With  only  the 
mind  to  spin  out  its  universe  of  thoughts.  Now  you 
know  what  hell  is.  The  mind  cut  off  from  the  body, 
from  life,  from  seed,  from  cell. 

George  Litwin  staggered  into  the  room.  He  was 
now  a  nineteenth-century  Frenchman,  cocky,  care- 
free, courageous.  He  swung  around  and  looked  at 
me  with  anguished  eyes.  We  were  both  dead  men, 
trapped  in  the  doomed  submarine.  We  said  noth- 


Fall  1961   00    251 


ing,  but  our  eyes  met  in  sympathetic  terror.  Gone, 
gone.  It's  finished. 

It  was  straight  telepathic  communication.  I  was 
in  his  mind,  he  was  in  my  mind,  we  both  saw  the 
whole  thing,  the  illusion,  the  artifice,  the  flimsy 
game-nature  of  the  mental  universe.  The  popeyed 
look  of  terror  changed  to  mellow  resignation  and 
the  Buddha  smiled.  He  murmured  the  word,  Har- 
vard, smiling.  I  said,  America.  He  said,  Duty.  And  I 
said,  Love.  He  flinched  and  then  nodded,  smiling 
sadly,  Yes,  love.  That  was  the  ultimate  confronta- 
tion. The  last  shattered  secret  from  the  Buddha 
bag.  It's  all  an  illusion,  even  love.  And  what's  left? 
The  wise,  cool,  all-seeing  eyes  and  the  slight  smile 
around  the  mouth.  Acceptance,  peace,  resigned 
serenity,  it's  all  in  your  own  mind,  Baby,  the  whole 
bit  from  beginning  to  end.  It  is  the  spinning  out  of 
your  own  chessboard.  Caesar,  Alexander,  Christ, 
America,  Timothy  Leary,  George  Litwin,  even 
love— they  only  exist  because  you  think  them.  Stop 
thinking  them  and  they  do  not  exist. 

Then  George  was  gone.  I  floated  to  the  door. 
Perhaps  outside  the  house  I  could  find  something 
solid,  real,  tangible. 

I  ran  out  to  the  lawn,  snow,  trees,  starlight.  It 
had  never  been  more  beautiful.  Etched,  sharp, 
magnified.  I  stood  there  listening  for  the  answer. 
Where  is  the  center?  What  is  real?  What  can  we 
do?  Then  rapidly,  but  completely,  in  careful  detail  I 
recapitulated  the  social  and  intellectual  history  of 
the  human  race.  I  relived  and  worked  through 
every  solution  which  the  human  mind  had  at- 
tempted. Society,  migrations,  groupings,  tribal 
wanderings,  invasions,  the  planting  of  crops,  the 
building  of  cities,  the  restless  searching  for  possi- 
bility and  meaning,  the  moral  codes,  the  taboos 
and  kinships,  the  emergence  of  stumbling  species 
groping  for  answer,  for  order,  for  center,  the  lost 
mutants  trapped  in  their  forebrains,  trying  to  think 
and  act  their  way  back  to  the  center.  What  to  do 
and  where  to  go?  I  could  foresee  the  outcome  of 
any  action  I  should  begin.  And  slowly,  like  a  string 
being  reeled  back,  I  retraced  my  steps  to  that 
central  spot  in  front  of  the  fire  where  the  session 
had  begun.  Here  was  the  beginning— Michael,  the 


As  in  the  Pavilion  of  the 
Mind,  this  is  the  stuff  of 
conversation. 


It  is  this  healthy  curiosity 
in  the  human  temperament 
which  will  in  due  course 
make  a  triumphant  success 
of  this  show. 


In  case  any  doubt  still  ex- 
ists that  the  Mind  Pavilion 
will  be  perhaps  the  out- 
standing success  at  the 
New  York  World's  Fair,  the 
fact  is  that  the  public  is 
much  more  interested  in  re- 
sults and  devices  than  the- 
ory, more  involved  with  see- 
ing and  hearing  than  read- 
ing, more  concerned  with 
being  better  than  with  being 
different. 


Hence  they  will  greet  an 
exhibition  that  points  to  the 
questioning  mind. 


A  public  today  doesn't 
really  want  ideas  about  the 
evolution  of  mind  but  the 
expressive  freedom  of 
knowing  what  lies  beyond, 
in  the  future. 


252  00   The  Drop-Out  Drug 


And,  as  we  have  been 
taught  to  believe,  the  fu- 
ture's measure  is  more 
and  more  coming  under  the 
precise  control  and  meth- 
ods of  modern  science.  .  .  . 
We  have  taken  the  fact  of 
a  scientifically-oriented  pub- 
lic and  mated  it  directly  with 
new  knowledge  and  experi- 
ence as  a  solution  to  the 
problem  of  presenting  an 
exhibition  drawn  almost 
wholly  from  what  we  know 
about  the  mind  and  its 
workings. 


We  have  projected  our 
ideas  with  vigorous  and  ex- 
citing natural  features — 
which  can  be  experienced 
by  the  public  close  to 
through  the  use  of  light, 
sound,  color,  and  technical 
innovations. 


This  has  meant  lots  of 
planning  before  we  could 
come  up  with  an  exhibit 
which  will,  we  hope,  convey 
both  the  worthy-seeming 
qualities  of  the  human  mind 
and  the  pleasures  of  self- 
expression  and  improve- 
ment through  a  better  un- 
derstanding of  how  the 
mind  works. 


Accordingly,  a  certain  face- 
lifting has  taken  place,  in- 
cluding a  general  design  of 
layout,  shape,  size  and 
other  structural  require- 
ments. 


master  trickster,  sitting  silently  and  waiting.  May- 
nard  and  Flo  on  the  couch.  Flo  draped  across 
Maynard's  lap.  I  said  something.  Flo  sat  up  and 
replied.  Maynard's  head  went  back  and  laughed. 
Then  I  repeated  the  same  message,  Flo  sat  up, 
Maynard  laughed.  I  repeated  the  same  message. 
Flo  sat  up  and  Maynard  laughed.  We  were  trapped 
in  a  time  loop.  Doomed  forever  to  repeat  a  brief 
television  commercial,  over  and  over  again  at  the 
station  break. 

Flo  and  Maynard  were  beautiful,  stage-dressed, 
made-up  characters.  The  classic  frail  beauty,  and 
the  dapper  young  musician,  costumed  for  their 
parts. 

I  looked  at  Michael.  His  sad  face  bore  the  record 
of  all  human  suffering.  He  was  clearly  one  of  the 
twelve  apostles,  cast  for  the  moment  in  the  funny 
little  drama  of  Michael  and  Cambridge,  come  to 
teach  us  the  ancient  message  that  the  center  is  back 
by  the  fire  with  your  friends.  Quiet  detached  trust 
and  mutual  acceptance  of  the  ultimate  cosmological 
horror.  Limited.  Limited.  Limited.  Trapped  in  our 
nervous  systems,  struggling  to  catch  one  glimpse 
every  decade  or  two  of  the  ancient  cellular  mem- 
brane meaning  of  life.  Waiting  patiently  through 
those  long  periods  of  plastic  isolation,  until  that 
next  vibrant  contact  came. 

George,  by  this  time,  had  disappeared.  His 
ordeal  of  death  and  renewal  ran  along  a  similar 
line,  with  only  the  stage  props  different.  At  that 
moment  of  ultimate  confrontation  he  knew  that  his 
place  was  at  home  with  his  wife.  He  ran  to  his  car 
and  with  conscious,  accurate  reflexes  started  it  and 
drove  down  the  street.  Ahead  of  him  was  a  Volks- 
wagen and  behind  with  their  lights  gleaming  were 
three  cars,  except  that  George  was  really  in  a  troika 
fleeing  across  a  snowy  Russian  steppe.  In  front  of 
him,  bouncing  along,  was  a  rabbit.  And  behind 
him,  yellow  eyes  gleaming  with  pursuit,  were  three 
wolves.  Over  and  over  the  snow  they  sped,  the 
rabbit,  the  troika,  and  the  pursuing  wolves,  till 
suddenly  the  lights  flashed  red  in  front  of  him. 
Dutifully  the  rabbit  stopped,  George  reined  up  his 
troika,  and  in  ballet  rhythm  the  three  wolves,  poised 
on  their  haunches,  waited  patiently.  Then  the  light 


Fall  1961   00    253 


flashed  green,  and  off  they  went  again,  the  rabbit, 
the  troika,  and  the  straining  wolves.  George  knew 
that  distance  had  to  be  kept  or  there  would  be 
danger  for  the  rabbit  or  danger  from  the  wolves. 
When  his  street  loomed  up  he  automatically  swung 
to  the  right,  parked  the  car,  ran  to  the  house, 
buried  his  head  in  his  wife's  lap  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening,  which  was  the  beginning  of  their  next 
voyage. 

Meanwhile,  my  cosmic  odyssey  went  on  and  on. 
One  myth  after  another,  lived  out  and  traced  back 
to  the  basic  flash  in  the  silent,  impersonal,  whirring 
of  primal  vibrations,  beyond  sense,  beyond  cell, 
beyond  seed,  beyond  life.  The  latticework  shuttling 
of  energy  patterns.  All  forms,  all  structure,  man- 
made  and  organic,  were  seen  clearly  in  their 
molecular  and  particle  nature.  All  structure  was  an 
illusion.  Every  form  was  a  momentary  stage  prop 
for  the  great  theater  of  illusion,  continually 
changing. 

My  previous  psychedelic  sessions  with  psilocybin 
had  opened  me  up  to  the  sensory  levels  of  con- 
sciousness, pushed  consciousness  out  to  the  mem- 
brane frontier,  contact  points  of  eyeball  and  light, 
ear  canal  and  sound.  Psilocybin  had  sucked  me 
down  into  nerve  nets,  into  the  somatic  organs,  heart 
pulse,  and  air  breath,  had  let  me  spiral  down  the 
DNA  ladder  of  evolution  to  the  beginning  of  life  on 
this  planet.  But  LSD  was  something  different.  Mi- 
chael's heaping  spoonful  had  flipped  consciousness 
out  beyond  life  into  the  whirling  dance  of  pure 
energy,  where  nothing  existed  except  whirring  vi- 
brations, and  each  illusory  form  was  simply  a 
different  frequency. 

It  was  the  most  shattering  experience  of  my  life.  I 
sat  there,  a  part  of  Einstein's  equation,  seeing  it  all, 
terrified  and  confused,  desperately  looking  for 
some  structure  which  would  last  against  the  ruth- 
less bombardment  of  energy  waves,  and  through  it 
all,  sitting  with  his  head  cradled  in  his  knees,  was 
the  architect  of  enlightenment,  the  magician,  who 
had  flicked  the  switch  to  this  alchemical  show  of 
revelation.  Michael,  the  trickster. 

As  I  watched  him,  looking  for  an  answer  in  his 
face,  he  changed.  No  longer  the  cool,  cynical  Bud- 


We  felt  it  was  one  gamble 
worth  taking,  and  perhaps 
the  best  contribution  we 
could  make  toward  the  suc- 
cess of  this  fair. 


Michael  Hollingshead 

00 


MICHAEL  HOLLINGSHEAD: 

Excelsior  Scientific  Trust 
40  East  84th  Street 
New  York,  N.Y. 
28  Jan.  1964 

Dear  Mr.  Bloomfield: 

Many  of  the  ideas  ex- 
pressed by  you  in  your  re- 
cent letter  to  the  chairman 
of  the  board  of  this  organ- 
ization are  directly  to  the 
point. 


But  when  you  remark  that 
the  exogenous  administra- 
tion of  neurobiotics  are 
likely  to  be  only  the  begin- 
ning and  not  the  end  of 
our  modern  bedlam  and 
that  a  normally  insane  in- 
dividual will  be  unable  to 
find  his  most  attentive  audi- 
ence in  mental  institutions 
alone,  you  are  trying  to 
justify  in  theory  the  very  in- 
teresting instinctive  devel- 
opment of  your  own  mind 
which,  like  Mondrian's  "the 
painter,"  develops  convinc- 
ingly into  a  close  relation- 
ship with  the  white  lines  on 
a  blueprint,  moon-skulled, 
with  a  lung  full  of  dust  and 
a  tongue  of  wood,  knee- 
deep  in  the  cold  and 
swamped  by  flowers,  not  to 
mention  the  white  China 
flying  fish  from  Italy. 


254  00    The  Drop-Out  Drug 


Mister,  your  head  is  lousy 
with  flowers,  whose  petals 
unlatch,  tapping  and  tick- 
ing like  nervous  fingers  or 
like  yellow  corsets  ready  to 
split. 


High  time  the  red  gerani- 
ums in  the  Toby  jug  gave 
up  the  ghost. 


You    should    have    junked 
them  before  they  died. 


Daybreak  has  discovered 
the  office  mail  on  my  desk 
looking  like  a  bureau  lid 
littered  with  Chinese  hands. 


Now  I'm  stared  at  by  chrys- 
anthemums the  size  of 
shrunken  heads,  dipped  in 
the  same  magenta  as  your 
red  geranium  eyeballs  the 
color  of  blood  pudding, 
blue  black,  a  spectacular 
plum-fruit. 


But    what    do    you    know 
about  that? 


You  are  too  wrapped  up  in 
your  thoughts  like  a  spool, 
trawling  your  dark  seas  as 
owls  do,  and  nightly  the 
snails  blow  kisses  like  black 
apples,  leaping  and  sink- 
ing back  into  themselves, 
echoing  in  their  shells  to 
the  least  footfall,  moving 
museums  without  fountains 
or  statues. 


dha  eye.  I  now  saw  him  as  the  lost  victim  of  the 
revelations  he'd  unleashed.  As  I  studied  him  care- 
fully I  could  see  scars  on  his  face  and  hands  and 
even  threads  of  antennae  sticking  up  from  his  skull. 
He  shot  a  piteous,  resigned  look  in  my  direction. 
He  is  the  victim  of  some  greater  power,  his  con- 
sciousness has  been  captured,  perhaps  by  intelli- 
gences from  another  planet.  He  is  not  a  free  agent. 
He  knows  what  he's  doing  but  he  has  no  control 
over  it.  His  turning  us  on  is  not  an  act  of  love  and 
glorification  but  some  sort  of  compulsion.  He  has  to 
do  it.  He  wants  us  to  share  the  immobilization  of 
his  profound  vision,  to  share  his  celestial  dilemma. 
His  cosmic  loneliness.  How  can  one  act  when  one 
sees  that  all  form  is  an  illusory  package  of  vibra- 
tions, just  like  your  television  screen?  Nothing  but 
beams  of  light  while  we  comfort  ourselves  with 
childish  explanations  of  philosophy  and  religion. 

The  effects  of  the  drug  began  to  wear  off  by 
dawn.  I  was  still  higher  than  I  had  ever  been 
before,  but  at  least  some  structure  was  coming 
back.  The  flow  of  vibrations  had  stopped,  and  I  felt 
myself  freezing  into  a  mold  of  plastic.  There  was  a 
terrible  sense  of  loss,  of  nostalgia,  for  the  long 
hours,  eons  really,  when  one  was  at  the  heart  of 
meaning  and  the  radiant  core  of  the  energy  process. 

I  walked  up  to  the  Fergusons'  room.  They  were 
sitting  transfixed,  feeling  the  same  despair  at  their 
ejection  from  paradise.  I  knelt  before  Flo  with  my 
head  in  her  lap,  tears  came  down  her  eyes,  and  I 
found  myself  shaking  with  sobs.  Why  had  we  lost 
it?  Why  were  we  being  reborn?  In  these  silly 
leather  bodies  with  these  trivial  little  chessboard 
minds?  For  the  rest  of  the  morning  I  was  in  a  daze, 
stunned  by  what  had  happened,  trying  to  figure  out 
what  to  do  with  these  new  revelations,  how  they 
make  sense,  what  to  do  with  life  routines,  which 
were  obviously  pointless,  senseless,  and  completely 
artificial. 

After  lunch  I  drove  out  to  the  prison.  In  the 
guardroom  I  met  the  warden,  a  genial,  unimagina- 
tive man  with  a  rubber  face  comically  laboring 
under  the  illusion  that  there  was  some  reality  to  this 
metal  fun  house,  horror  show,  which  we  called  a 
prison.  I  met  with  the  twelve  prisoners  who  were 


Fall  1961   00    255 


part  of  our  rehabilitation  project.  They  were  full  of 
enthusiasm  and  energy,  planning  for  our  next  ses- 
sion. I  was  very  quiet.  The  few  things  I  said  were 
spoken  in  a  low,  serene  voice,  and  carefully  selected 
so  they  would  make  sense  to  an  amoeba,  to  a 
nuclear  particle.  My  mood  carried  over  to  them,  I 
knew.  They  were  quiet,  and  peaceful  when  I  left. 

I  remember  driving  back  to  my  office  in  Cam- 
bridge from  the  prison.  I  could  still  feel  a  strange 
electric  noise  in  my  brain  and  I  was  still  struggling 
with  that  question,  Why  did  I  return?  Why  were 
the  gates  of  paradise  closed  to  me?  Where  had  I 
lost  the  flow?  Was  it  fear,  or  greed,  or  the  result  of 
past  stupidities?  And  would  I  ever  get  the  chance 
again  to  break  through  to  that  other  illusion,  and 
participate  in  the  heart  of  the  great  vibration  dance. 
Then  I  realized  what  I  was  doing.  I  was  imposing 
the  old  mental  game  on  the  inexplicable  mystery 
story  of  life.  It  all  had  to  do  with  trust  and  ac- 
ceptance. 

When  I  got  to  my  office  they  told  me  later  I  was 
noticeably  changed.  Pearl,  the  jewel  secretary,  and 
the  graduate  students  waiting  for  me  were  immedi- 
ately turned-on  by  what  they  called  a  solid  serenity. 
It  was  impossible  to  say  much.  I  listened,  smiled. 
After  a  few  minutes  George  Litwin  walked  in.  It 
was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  him  since  our  sub- 
marine death  scene  in  my  kitchen.  Our  eyes  met 
again  in  deep  understanding.  I  took  him  by  the  arm 
and  walked  to  a  nearby  conference  room  and 
closed  the  door.  Neither  one  of  us  said  a  word  for  a 
long  time.  Well,  what  do  we  do  now?  Right,  he 
said.  That's  all  Tve  been  thinking  about.  Once  you 
see  how  it's  all  composed,  it  is  hard  to  go  back  to 
the  game.  Love  too.  Yes,  love  too.  He  stood  looking 
out  the  window  at  the  twilight.  Let's  go  up  to  my 
place,  have  a  drink,  and  look  at  the  fire.  He 
nodded. 

For  the  next  few  days,  everyone  on  our  research 
project  was  watching  George  and  me  with  reverent 
concern.  They  could  tell  we  had  been  beyond 
where  we  had  ever  been  before.  They  were  fasci- 
nated and  frightened  by  what  had  happened  to  us. 
Dick  Alpert  in  particular  was  concerned.  He  could 
sense  that  we  had  moved  beyond  the  game  of 


Nightly   I   flog   sheep   over 
their  iron  stile. 


And  sheep  don't  sleep. 


I  can't  get  them  out  of  my 
mind;  not  the  sheep,  that 
is,  but  the  bear-furred,  bird- 
eating  spiders  clambering 
round  their  glass  box  like 
an  eight-fingered  hand, 
jumpy  as  a  Mexican  bean. 


Which  is  why  I  can't  sleep 
and  has  no  connection  with 
anything  but  an  irresistible 
inner  source;  and  whether 
this  may  or  may  not  be 
relevant  to  what  you  so 
freely  and  objectively  wrote 
in  your  letter  is  beside  the 
point. 


It  would,  however,  be  an 
incautious  assumption  that 
this  is  impossible. 

Yours  cordially, 
Michael 


LSD  is  not  so  much  the 
dead-end  drug  that  fell  in 
love  with  beauty  as  a  bright 
silk  waistcoat  that  dazzles 
a  real,  if  often  absurd, 
world  of  human  objects  and 
behavior:  The  symbol  of  re- 
newal wears  the  apparatus 
of  a  crimson  pourpoint  that 
daunts  the  evasive  honesty 
of  those  whose  application 
to  the  humdrum  is  remark- 
able— not  so  their  inspira- 
tion. 

00 


256  00    The  Drop-Out  Drug 


MICHAEL  HOLLINGSHEAD: 

Excelsior  Scientific  Trust 
40  East  84th  Street 
New  York,  N.Y. 
28F64 
Box  Y8774 

Montreal  Evening  Angus 
Montreal,  Canada. 
Dear  advertiser; 

I'm  really  even  afraid  pri- 
vately to  whisper  your  frag- 
ile public  name,  become 
the  tease,  the  butt,  the  lisper 
of  the  old  shame — of  seek- 
ing the  partner  in  love 
game — and  sometimes  for 
a  second  really  live  with 
magic's  miracles. 


psychology,  the  game  of  trying  to  help  people,  and 
beyond  the  game  of  conventional  love  relationships. 
We  were  quietly  and  serenely  aware  of  much  too 
much. 

My  relationship  with  Michael  had  undergone  the 
greatest  change.  I  treated  him  with  an  awed  re- 
spect. There  was  still  a  big  part  of  my  conscious- 
ness which  saw  him  as  messenger  from  a  divinity. 
How  right  and  beautiful  it  was  that  God  should 
send  his  messenger  in  the  form  of  this  eccentric, 
impatient,  and  mildly  disreputable  Michael.  I  got 
up  early  to  take  him  to  work  and  studied  his  every 
move  for  clues.  Everytime  I  questioned  him  about 
the  session  he  reacted  with  an  evasive  casualness, 
shoulder  shrugs,  raised  eyebrows.  That's  the  way  it 
is,  you  know.  With  no  more  detailed  explanations. 


It's  not  that  I  haven't  got 
the  nerve,  and  obviously 
not  because  I  think  there's 
any  turpitude  in  sex  or 
drink. 


I  think  my  only  qualm  at  all 
is  that  you  might  regard 
my  deeply-valleyed  napes 
as  small  as  grapes,  ridicu- 
lously small. 


25  May  64 

LSD  (to  parody  a  famous 
Oscar  Wilde  saying  about 
drink  and  the  working 
classes)  is  the  curse  of  the 
thinking  classes. 

Michael 

00 


It  has  been  five  years  since  that  first  LSD  trip 
with  Michael  Hollingshead.  I  have  never  forgotten 
it.  Nor  has  it  been  possible  for  me  to  return  to  the 
life  I  was  leading  before  that  session.  I  have  never 
recovered  from  that  shattering  ontological  confron- 
tation. I  have  never  been  able  to  take  myself,  my 
mind,  and  the  social  world  around  me  as  seriously. 
Since  that  time  five  years  ago  I  have  been  acutely 
aware  of  the  fact  that  everything  I  perceive,  every- 
thing within  and  around  me  is  a  creation  of  my  own 
consciousness. 

From  that  day  in  November  1961  until  this 
moment,  sitting  in  the  sun  at  Millbrook,  dictating 
these  words,  I  have  never  quite  lost  the  realization 
that  I  am  an  actor  and  that  everyone  and  every- 
thing around  me  is  stage  prop  and  setting  for  the 
comic  drama  I  am  creating.  LSD  can  be  a  pro- 
foundly asocial  experience.  Since  that  first  session 
with  Michael  I  was  never  able  to  commit  myself  to 
the  game  of  Harvard  or  even  to  the  game  of 
rehabilitation.  Not  even  to  the  game  of  proselytiz- 
ing for  LSD  itself.  Nothing  that  doesn't  ring  true  to 
my  ancient  cell  wisdom  and  to  that  central  vibrat- 
ing beam  within  can  hold  my  attention  for  very 
long.  From  the  date  of  this  session  it  was  inevitable 
that  we  would  leave  Harvard,  that  we  would 
leave  American  society,  and  that  we  would  spend 
the  rest  of  our  lives  as  mutants,  faithfully  following 


Fall  1961   00    257 


the  instructions  of  our  internal  blueprints,  and  ten- 
derly, gently  disregarding  the  parochial  social  in- 
sanities. 

There  is  a  second  aspect  of  this  session  from 
which  I  have  never  recovered.  The  mind  manipula- 
tion paranoia.  Before  this  LSD  session  with 
Michael,  I  had  taken  psilocybin  over  a  hundred 
times.  But  in  each  case  I  was  the  one  who  was 
directing  the  session  and  giving  out  sacramental 
drugs.  Michael  was  the  first  person  to  guide  me  and 
to  propel  me  out  beyond  my  mind.  Ever  since  that 
day  I  have  had  a  recurring  science-fiction  paranoia 
which  comes  up  in  almost  every  LSD  session.  It 
starts  like  this:  suddenly,  with  a  click,  I  am  this 
new  level  of  reality.  I  am  suddenly  on  camera  in  a 
ancient  television  show  directed  and  designed  by 
some  unknown  intelligence.  I'm  the  pathetic  clown, 
the  shallow,  corny,  twentieth-century  American,  the 
classic  buffoon  completely  caught  in  a  world  of  his 
own  making,  and  not  realizing  that  the  goals  and 
ambitions  he  strives  for,  the  serious  games  he  strug- 
gles with,  are  simply  the  comic  relief,  a  brief  clown 
act.  And  how  patiently  the  supporting  cast  gets 
dragged  around  at  the  will  of  my  mind.  Those  two 
wise  creatures  that  have  to  play  the  roles  of  my 
children,  the  patient  Olympians  who  dress  them- 
selves day  after  day  to  play  out  the  parts  of  friends 
in  my  drama. 


MICHAEL  HOLLINGSHEAD: 

H.  M.  Prison 

Leyhill 

Wotton-Under-Edge, 

Glos. 

26  May  1967 

My  dear  Timothy, 

Today  marks  my  first  an- 
niversary in  prison,  for  it 
was  one  year  ago  exactly 
that  I  was  sentenced.  Of 
course  I  have  seen  many 
changes  in  this  time,  some 
for  best,  some  for  the 
worse,  but  all  always  wel- 
come. But  perhaps  the  most 
interesting  have  been  in 
the  catering  arrangements, 
which  are  always  a  source 
of  difficulty  in  a  closed 
community. 


Most  prisons  work  on  a  self- 
service  system.  Now  oddly 
enough,  forward  looking 
Leyhill  prison  may  soon  be 
the  only  one  in  the  country 
where  inmates  are  still 
waited  on  by  servants. 


Nicholas:  I  like  my  experiments  simple. 
Lily  de  Seitas:  the  days  of  simple  experiments  are 
over.  (The  Magus) 


But  who's  the  sponsor  of  the  show?  What  am  I 
supposed  to  do?  Who,  in  all  the  crowd  of  stereo- 
typed puppets  that  I  command  around  me,  is  the 
director  of  the  show?  He  would,  of  course,  be  the 
last  person  that  I  would  think  of,  that  Leo  of  the 
League,  who  is  to  lead  me  to  a  higher  level  of 
consciousness.  Am  I  the  only  one  who  had  not 
caught  on,  who  has  not  broken  through?  The  only 
one  still  thrashing  around  in  egocentric  isolation? 
And  who  is  Michael  with  his  half -bald  head  and  his 
angelic  gross  face,  pink-veined  from  alcohol,  chain- 
smoking Camel  cigarettes? 


A  self-service  system,  pre- 
sided over  by  a  grim,  steel- 
helmeted  prison  officer  in 
gym  shoes,  was  tried  for 
several  years.  But  it  was 
found  that  the  biggest  and 
toughest  inmates  invariably 
got  all  the  food,  amid 
scenes  of  brutish  greed  and 
violence  hardly  paralleled 
since  Eolithic  times.  The 
prison  officer  was  repeat- 
edly coshed  and  the  con- 
tents of  his  pockets  shared 
among  the  same  natural  in- 
mate leaders. 


258  00    The  Drop-Out  Drug 


After  experiments  with  the 
tough  system,  with  even 
worse  results,  a  solution 
has  now  been  found.  The 
small  remaining  number  of 
sexual  offenders  not  re- 
quired as  subjects  for  medi- 
cal experiments  are  now 
detailed  to  wait  on  the  rul- 
ing caste  of  G.B.H.  (griev- 
ous bodily  harm)  cases  and 
Mafia  chiefs,  who  after  din- 
ner follow  the  custom  of 
their  ancestors  by  pelting 
them  with  bones. 


Fair  slaves  are  enforced  by 
a  picked,  strong-arm  squad 
of  prison  officers  with  pa- 
troling  dogs.  The  principal 
officers,  according  to  im- 
memorial custom,  still  dine 
at  the  top  table  behind  an 
electrified  barbed  wire 
fence.  The  system  seems 
to  work  very  well  indeed. 


But  is  life  truly  'hard'  in 
prison?  Do  prisoners  spend 
all  their  time  scheming  and 
planning  to  escape?  Isn't 
prison  something  of  an 
anachronism  in  our  20th 
century  society?  Let's  look 
at  some  of  the  facts.  The 
prisoner  returning  to  so- 
ciety often  finds  life  "a  hec- 
tic, ill-mannered  rat  race," 
said  a  speaker  recently  at 
a  conference  of  the  Na- 
tional Association  of  Proba- 
tion Officers.  "Is  it  any  won- 
der that  some  people  may 
appear  to  prefer  the  com- 
parative peace  of  prisons?" 


H.  M.  Prison 

Leyhill 

Wotton-Under-Edge 

Gloucester 

19  April  1967 

My  Dear  Timothy, 

Very  many  thanks  for  your  letter  and  manuscript 
which  I  was  very  glad  indeed  to  get. 

Yes,  of  course,  please  make  use  of  my  name  in 
your  book— Hollingshead  or  Shinkfield-Hollings- 
head,  it  is  a  matter  of  preference,  though  with  the 
latter,  some  sales  are  assured  in  the  North  of  Eng- 
land and  in  the  Lothians. 

Your  account  of  those  early  days  fulfills  perfectly 
—so  it  seems  to  me— the  purpose  of  bringing  out  a 
history  of  the  psychedelic  movement.  And  to  those 
of  us  fortunate  enough  to  have  taken  part  in  this 
evolutionary  process,  this  is  the  (almost)  only 
consolation  of  which  the  spectrals  of  the  world 
cannot  deprive  us. 

Turning  to  the  manuscript,  there  were  only  a 
couple  of  matters  of  fact  which  need  correcting. 
The  first,  on  page  1,  Professor  G.  E.  Moore  is 
associated  with  Cambridge,  not  Oxford.  He  was  84 
when  he  joined  the  Association  for  Cultural  Ex- 
change Ltd.,  which  he  did  as  that  organization's 
secretary,  a  duty  he  carried  out,  I  must  now  add, 
by  proxy.  The  second  factual  error  is  in  the  very 
last  sentence  .  .  .  And  who  is  Michael  with  his 
half-bald  head  and  his  angelic  gross  face,  pink- 
veined  from  alcohol,  chain-smoking  Camel  cigar- 
ettes? For  my  face  really  isn't  pink-veined  and  the 
suggestion  that  it  is,  and  is  so  moreover  through  a 
hinted  over-indulgence  in  alcohol,  does  not  quite  fit 
the  picture  I  have  of  myself  from  that  time,  though 
of  course  I  did  drink,  and  still  do,  but  not  in  vein- 
reddening  proportions.  I  cannot  think  of  anything 
better  than  .  .  .  with  his  half-bald  head  and  his 
angelic  gross  face,  sunlit  and  tranquil,  inclining  its 
axle  slowly  to  the  waning  sea  unrippled,  far  below: 
a  face  in  which  nothing  replies,  whose  silences  are 
one  more  meditation  for  the  rose. 

That  ends  it  on  a  suitable  note  of  mystery,  I 
think.  I  hope  that  is  enough  and  that  you  didn't 


260  00   The  Drop-Out  Drug 


It  is  not.  Who  in  his  right 
mind  would  choose  life 
outside,  when  he  might  be 
enjoying  the  soul-restoring 
calm,  the  rhythmic,  reas- 
suring order  of  a  well-run 
mick? 


Here  we  are,  with  one  or 
two  chosen  companions, 
chatting  in  some  comfort- 
able cell;  pottering  about  on 
the  prison  farm;  catching 
up,  with  the  cooperation  of 
a  nice  bespectacled  old  li- 
brary "trustee,"  on  books 
we  never  got  round  to  read- 
ing; or  listening  to  some 
decent  third  programme 
music  on  the  headphones, 
with  a  mug  of  steaming 
cocoa  at  our  elbow,  just 
placed  there  by  a  kindly 
screw,  intent,  with  the  re- 
spectful familiarity  of  the 
best  kind  of  old-fashioned 
servant,  preserving  our  little 
world  from  all  outside  im- 
portunities. 


really  want  me  to  annotate  all  over  the  manuscript 
and  send  it  back.  I  think  it  reads  well,  though  it 
calls  for  perhaps  a  cool,  hard  look  again  and  a 
reminder  to  yourself  of  the  purpose  in  going  into 
print  at  this  early  stage.  For  considerable  finesse 
and  great  subtlety  in  the  arrangement  of  your 
material  is  called  for,  and  any  attempt  to  ignore 
subtlety  in  favor  of  speed  will  so  much  lessen  the 
real  value  a  reader  could  derive  from  your  analysis 
and  thoughts.  For  you  must  write  always  as  you 
are,  which  is  a  fine,  sensible  human  being,  able  to 
recognize  in  others  what  is  forward-looking,  and 
help  foster  their  creativity;  a  teacher  of  depth,  most 
profound  of  all  in  modern  times;  a  catalyst  and  a 
sustainer  of  those  who  followed  your  Way.  Nothing 
less  or  it  will  trivialize  your  work.  For  mystery  is 
the  philosopher's  night  and  water:  like  the  earth 
herself,  a  daughter  of  truth,  and  marches  about  that 
unforgiving  Sun,  in  wheeled  abysses  toward  un- 
known light's  embraces,  until  the  dreamer  ceases  to 
murmur  against  stars  or  maker,  go  roving— secret 
races— and  only  the  moon  notices,  that  watcher  of 
selves  that  shimmers  on  a  pitcher  of  water,  sieving 
the  mystery  of  all  our  dark  places,  in  a  handful  of 
faces;  so  many  lost  embraces  in  newly  found  high 
places.  The  loneliness  of  the  human  soul  is  unen- 
durable; nothing  can  penetrate  it  except  the  highest 
intensity  of  the  sort  of  love  that  religious  teachers 
have  preached;  whatever  does  not  spring  from  this 
motive  is  harmful,  or  at  best  useless;  it  follows  that 
in  human  relations  one  should  penetrate  to  the  core 
of  loneliness  in  each  person  and  speak  to  that.  Until 
I  met  you  I  had  taken  little  notice  of  that  fact,  but  I 
listened  willingly,  and  felt  at  home  in  your  com- 
pany. From  that  day  to  this  I  have  seen  a  little 
more  than  I  am,  and  communication  and  wholeness 
are  no  longer  out  of  reach,  for  I  have  never  given 
up  my  essential  urge  for— for  want  of  a  better 
word— virtue;  and  many,  many  things  have  been 
learned  from  you. 

All  my  love  to  friends  we  hold  dear.  And  I  shall 
write  you  again  just  as  soon  as  I  have  settled  down 
to  the  routine  of  this  place,  which  will  not  be  too 
long.  I  found  this  recent  week  unsettling  to  my 
prison  routine,  or  is  it  that  I  long  so  much  for  all 


Fall  1961   00    261 


that  lightness  of  heart  and  foot  that  streams  by 
these  walls  each  day,  this  bad  unhappy  sort  of 
monk.  Yet  I  am  realistic  to  know  that  when  I  do  set 
on  the  Outside  I  will  find  the  world  is  not  trans- 
figured or  laid  bare,  or  pierced  with  singing  voices 
.  .  .  only  the  press  of  wings  about  the  place.  Once 
beyond  these  walls  my  heart  will  quicken  and  my 
tongue  renew. 

My  love, 
Michael 


What  stops  more  people 
from  entering  this  world? 
The  first  step,  perhaps? 

Love,  Michael 

00 


POSSESSION    IN    GREAT    MEASURE. 

Supreme  Success. 

(IChing) 


Are  Heaven  and  Hell  Real? 


The  Gentle,  Wind 


O 
O 


2 
Z 

o 

Winter  1961  H 

Guide:     ralph  metzner 

< 
Oracle:  XX  So 

Contemplation   (View)  !z; 


w 

x 

w 

The  Receptive,  Earth  W 

o 
m 

The  wind  blows  over  the  earth: 
The  image  of  contemplation. 
Thus  the  kings  of  old  visited  the  regions  of  the 

world, 
Contemplated  the  people, 
And  gave  them  instruction. 

(IChing) 


TRIP  13 


From  Innerspace: 

The  Hungarian  pharmacolo- 
gist, Stephen  Szara  first 
reported  in  1957  that  N,N- 
Dimethyltryptamine  (DMT) 
and  N,N-Diethyltryptamine 
(DET)  produced  effects  in 
man  similar  to  LSD  and 
mescaline. 


The  only  difference  was  in 
duration:  whereas  LSD  and 
mescaline  typically  last 
eight  to  ten  hours,  DMT 
lasted  from  forty  minutes  to 
one  hour  and  DET  from  two 
to  three  hours. 


The  higher  homologues, 
dipropyltryptamine  and  di- 
butyltryptamine,  were  also 
said  to  be  active  but  less 
potent. 


The  parent  substance,  tryp- 
tamine,  by  itself  has  no  ef- 
fect. 


Chemically,  DMT  is  closely 
related  to  psilocybin  and 
psilocin  (4-hydroxy-N-di- 
methyltryptamine),  as  well 
as  to  bufotenine  (5-hydroxy- 
N-dimethyltryptamine). 


During  the  first  year  of  the  Harvard  Psychedelic 
Research  Project,  rumors  circulated  about  a  power- 
ful psychedelic  chemical  called  dimethyltrypta- 
mine:  DMT.  The  effect  of  this  substance  was  sup- 
posed to  last  for  less  than  an  hour  and  to  produce 
terrorizing  effects.  It  was  alleged  to  be  the  horror- 
show  drug  of  the  psychedelic  family. 

William  Burroughs  had  tried  it  in  London  and 
radioed  back  an  urgent  warning.  Burroughs  was 
working  at  that  time  on  a  theory  of  neurological 
geography— certain  cortical  areas  being  heavenly, 
other  areas  being  diabolical.  Like  an  explorer  mov- 
ing into  a  new  continent,  he  believed  it  important 
to  map  out  the  friendly  areas  of  the  brain  and  the 
hostile.  In  Burroughs'  pharmacological  cartography, 
DMT  propelled  the  voyager  into  strange  and  de- 
cidedly unfriendly  territory. 

Burroughs  told  a  gripping  tale  about  a  psychia- 
trist in  London  who  had  taken  DMT  with  a  friend. 
After  a  few  minutes  the  frightened  friend  began 
requesting  help.  The  psychiatrist,  himself  being 
spun  through  a  universe  of  shuttling,  vibratory 
pigments,  reached  for  his  hypodermic  needle, 
which  had  been  fragmented  into  a  shimmering 
assemblage  of  wave  mosaics,  and  bent  over  to 
administer  an  antidote.  Much  to  his  dismay,  his 
friend,  twisting  in  panic,  was  suddenly  transformed 
into  a  writhing,  wiggling  reptile,  jewel-encrusted 
and  sparkling.  The  doctor's  dilemma:  where  to 
make  an  intravenous  injection  in  a  squirming  ori- 
ental-martian  snake? 

Alan  Watts  had  a  DMT  story  to  tell:  he  took  the 
drug  as  part  of  a  California  research  project  and 
had  planned  to  demonstrate  that  he  could  maintain 
rational  control  and  verbal  fluency  during  the  ex- 
perience. The  closest  equivalent  might  be  to  at- 
tempt a  moment-to-moment  description  of  one's 
264 


Winter  1961  00    265 


reactions  while  being  fired  out  the  muzzle  of  an 
atomic  cannon  with  neo-byzantine  barreling.  Dr. 
Watts  gave  an  awe-full  description  of  perceptual 
fusion. 

In  the  fall  of  1962,  while  giving  a  three-day  series 
of  lectures  to  the  Southern  California  Society  of 
Clinical  Psychologists,  Dick  Alpert  and  I  fell  into 
discussion  with  a  psychiatrist  who  was  collecting 
data  on  DMT.  He  had  given  the  drug  to  over  a 
hundred  subjects  and  only  four  had  reported  pleas- 
ant experiences.  This  was  a  challenge  to  the  set- 
setting  hypothesis. 

Can  chemicals  produce  specific  changes  in  con- 
sciousness? Was  the  molecular  structure  of  DMT 
such  that  it  automatically  produced  hell  trips?  Is 
there  really  a  hell  area  of  the  nervous  system?  Or  is 
it  not  the  expectation  and  surroundings  which  make 
the  experience  hellish  or  heavenly? 

A  basic  theological  issue  is  involved  here.  It's  the 
ancient  question  that  has  divided  philosophers  for 
several  thousand  years.  We  become  involved  once 
again  in  the  bitter  debate  that  rent  the  academic 
calm  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Realism  or  nominalism. 
The  problem  of  universals.  Do  qualities  really  exist 
or  are  they  just  interpretations  that  the  mind  im- 
poses? Do  redness,  goodness,  sharpness  really  exist? 
Does  evil  exist?  Does  the  devil  exist?  Does 
psychosis  exist?  Is  there  an  area  of  the  brain  in 
which  hell  is  to  be  found?  And  one  specific  molec- 
ular key  to  this  area?  Or  do  we  simply  create  these 
categories  with  our  minds?  Look  through  our 
mind's  eye  to  find  them  and  then  proclaim  the 
redundancy  to  be  a  fact,  and  then  armed  with  the 
schoolmaster's  rod  teach  the  names  and  facts  to  our 
children,  who  then  obediently  discover  and  confirm 
the  reality  of  our  names  and  facts,  and  then  armed 
with  sword  strike  down  or  imprison  those  who 
doubt  the  reality  of  our  names  or  facts? 

This  most  basic  debate  has  raged  in  every  culture 
and  philosophy  and  religion.  The  hard-reality 
Brahmins  and  the  soft-flowing  Buddhas.  The  fixed 
dualists  and  the  easy  monists.  Tertullian  vs.  Augus- 
tine. St.  Jerome  vs.  Johannes  Scotus  Erigena.  The 
certainty  of  Paul  and  the  Divine  Names  of  Diony- 
sius  the  Areopagite.  The  rigid  theology  of  the  Vati- 


The  mechanism  of  action  of 
DMT  and  related  com- 
pounds is  still  a  scientific 
mystery. 


Like  LSD  and  psilocybin, 
DMT  has  the  property  of  in- 
creasing the  metabolic  turn- 
over of  serotonin  in  the 
body. 


An  enzyme  capable  of  con- 
verting naturally  occurring 
tryptamine  to  DMT  has  re- 
cently been  found  in  some 
mammalian  tissue. 


This  suggests  that  mecha- 
nisms may  exist  whereby 
the  body  converts  normally 
occurring  substances  to 
psychedelic  compounds. 


DMT  has  been  identified  as 
one  of  the  ingredients  in  the 
seeds  of  mimosa  hostilis 
from  which  the  Pancaru  In- 
dians of  Pemambuco,  Bra- 
zil, prepare  an  hallucino- 
genic beverage  they  call 
vinho  de  Jurumena. 

00 


From  "An  Open  Letter  to 
Timothy  Leary"  by  The  Rt. 
Rev.  Michael  Francis  Itkin: 

I  have  recently  done  a  great 
deal  of  research  and  study 
on  this  matter,  and  I  find 
that  neither  DMT  or  DET 
are  truly  psychedelics,  nor 
for  that  matter  even  true 
hallucinogenic  agents  in  the 
general  usage  of  those 
terms. 


266  00    Are  Heaven  and  Hell  Real? 


Rather,  both  DMT  and  DET 
are  deliriants,  i.e.,  the  ef- 
fects they  achieve  are  ob- 
tained by  subjecting  the 
body  to  a  state  of  delirium 
similar  to  that  which  might 
accompany  a  fever  of  105 
degrees. 


The  degree  wrought  to  the 
physical  center  is  commen- 
surate with  the  physical 
conditions  accompanying  a 
105-degree  fever. 


In  addition,  I  am  sure  you 
have  observed  the  tempo- 
rarily ruptured  blood  ves- 
sels in  the  eyes  of  those 
who  have  used  DMT  or  DET 
with  great  frequency. 


Consider,  then,  what  these 
same  deliriants  must  do  to 
the  blood  vessels  through- 
out the  intestinal  tract,  to 
the  tissues  of  the  liver, 
to  the  brain  cells  and,  per- 
haps most  clearly  possible 
and  defined,  to  the  heart 
(particularly  to  the  aorta). 


It  is  also,  along  with  bufo- 
tenine,  one  of  the  ingredi- 
ents in  the  seeds  of  Pipta- 
denia  peregrine,  from  which 
the  Indians  of  Trinidad  pre- 
pare an  hallucinogenic 
snuff  they  call  yopo. 

00 


can  vs.  the  Empty  Godhood  of  Eckhart.  The 
Islamic  orthodoxy  of  Baghdad  vs.  the  intoxicated 
pantheism  of  the  Sufis.  The  legal  finality  of  the 
Sanhedrin  vs.  Essene  fervor. 

Here  it  comes  again.  The  old  ontological  quarrel. 
Does  a  psychedelic  drug  produce  any  definite  reac- 
tion, or  is  the  experience  created  by  the  divine 
freedom  of  the  experiencer?  Are  God  and  the  Devil 
out  there  or  within?  Does  LSD  cause  psychosis  or 
multiple-orgasm?  Does  DMT  trigger  off  a  neurolog- 
ical horror  show  or  new  levels  of  satori? 

We  had  found  little  difference  among  psyche- 
delic drugs.  As  nominalists  and  ecstatics  we  were 
convinced  that  the  elaborate  clinical  variations 
allegedly  found  in  reactions  to  different  drugs  were 
psychedelic  folktales.  We  were  sticking  to  our  null 
hypothesis  that  psychedelic  drugs  had  no  specific 
effect  on  consciousness,  except  to  expand  it,  and 
that  expectation,  preparation,  spiritual  climate,  and 
the  emotional  contract  with  the  drug-giver,  ac- 
counted for  specific  differences  in  reaction.  Good 
trips  or  bad  trips. 

We  were  eager  to  see  if  the  fabled  terror-drug, 
DMT,  would  fit  the  set-setting  theory. 

A  session  was  arranged.  We  came  to  the  home  of 
the  psychiatrist  accompanied  by  a  Vedanta  monk 
and  two  female  friends.  After  a  lengthy  and 
friendly  discussion  with  the  physician,  Dick  Alpert 
lay  down  on  a  couch.  His  girl  friend's  head  rested 
on  his  chest.  I  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  couch,  smiling 
reassurance.  Fifty  mgs.  of  DMT  were  administered 
intramuscularly. 

Within  two  minutes  Dick  Alpert's  face  was  glow- 
ing with  serene  joy.  For  the  next  twenty-three 
minutes  he  gasped  and  murmured  in  pleasure, 
keeping  up  an  amused  and  ecstatic  account  of  his 
visions. 

Exactly  twenty-five  minutes  after  administration, 
he  smiled,  sighed,  sat  up  swinging  his  legs  over  the 
side  of  the  couch  and  said,  It  lasted  for  a  million 
years  and  for  a  split  second.  Now  it's  your  turn. 

With  this  reassuring  precedent,  I  took  up  posi- 
tion on  the  couch.  Virginia  sat  on  the  floor  holding 
my  hand.  Dick  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  couch,  radiat- 
ing benevolence. 


Winter  1961  00    267 


Five  minutes  after  the  injection,  lying  comfort- 
ably on  the  bed,  I  felt  typical  psychedelic  onset 
symptoms— a  pleasant  somatic  looseness,  a  sensi- 
tive tuning-in  to  physical  sensations. 

Eyes  closed  .  .  .  typical  LSD  visions,  the  ex- 
quisite beauty  of  retinal  and  physical  machinery, 
transcendence  of  mental  activity,  serene  detach- 
ment. Comforting  awareness  of  Virginia's  hand 
and  the  presence  of  friends. 

Suddenly  I  opened  my  eyes  and  sat  up.  .  .  . 
The  room  was  celestial,  glowing  with  radiant  illu- 
mination .  .  .  light  .  .  .  light  .  .  .  light  .  .  . 
the  people  present  were  transfigured  .  .  .  godlike 
creatures  ...  we  were  all  united  as  one  organism. 
Beneath  the  radiant  surface  I  could  see  the  deli- 
cate, wondrous  body  machinery  of  each  person,  the 
network  of  muscle  and  vein  and  bone— exquisitely 
beautiful  and  all  joined,  all  part  of  the  same 
process. 

Our  group  was  sharing  a  paradisial  experience- 
each  one  in  turn  was  to  be  given  the  key  to  eternity 
—now  it  was  my  turn,  I  was  experiencing  this 
ecstasy  for  the  group.  Later  the  others  would  voy- 
age. We  were  members  of  a  transcendent  col- 
lectivity. 

Dick  Alpert  coached  me  tenderly  .  .  .  handed 
me  a  mirror  wherein  I  saw  my  face  a  stained-glass 
portrait. 

Virginia's  face  was  that  of  all  women— wise, 
beautiful,  eternal.  Her  eyes  were  all  female  eyes. 
She  murmured  exactly  the  right  message.  It  can 
always  be  this  way. 

The  incredible  complex-unity  of  the  evolutionary 
process— staggering,  endless  in  its  variety— why? 
Where  is  it  going?  etc.,  etc.  The  old  questions  and 
then  the  laughter  of  the  amused,  ecstatic  paradox. 
Too  much!  Too  great!  Never  mind!  It  can't  be 
figured  out.  Love  it  in  gratitude  and  accept  the 
mystery!  I  would  lean  forward  to  search  for  mean- 
ing in  Virginia's  china-flecked  face  and  fall  back 
on  the  pillow  in  reverent,  awed  laughter. 

Gradually,  the  brilliant  illumination  faded  back 
to  the  three-D  world  and  I  sat  up.  Reborn.  Re- 
newed. Radiant  with  affection  and  reverence. 

I  had  tripped  to  the  highest  point  of  LSD  illu- 


Dick  Alpert's  Report: 

The  faces  in  the  room  had 
become  billion-faceted  mo- 
saics of  rich  and  vibrant 
hues.  The  facial  character- 
istics of  each  of  the  ob- 
servers surrounding  the 
bed,  were  the  keys  to  their 
genetic  heritage. 


Dr.  X  (the  psychiatrist)  was 
a  bronzed  American  Indian 
with  full  ceremonial  paint. 


The  Hindu  monk  was  a 
deep  soulful  middle-east- 
erner with  eyes  which  were 
at  once  reflecting  animal 
cunning  and  the  sadness  of 
centuries. 


Leary  was  a  roguish  Irish- 
man, a  sea  captain  with 
weathered  skin  and  creases 
at  the  corners  of  eyes 
which  had  looked  long  and 
hard  into  the  unsee-able. 


Adventurous  skipper  of 
a  three-masted  schooner 
eager  to  chart  new  waters, 
to  explore  the  continent 
just  beyond. 


268  00   Are  Heaven  and  Hell  Real? 


Exuding  a  confidence  that 
comes  from  a  humorous 
cosmic  awareness  of  his 
predicament — genetic  and 
immediate. 


And  next  to  me,  or  rather 
on  me,  or  rather  in  me,  or 
rather  more  of  me — Billy. 


Her  body  was  vibrating  in 
such  harmony  with  mine 
that  each  ripple  of  muscle, 
the  very  coursing  of  blood 
through  her  veins  was  a 
matter  of  absolute  intimacy. 


Body  messages  of  a 
subtlety  and  tenderness 
both  exotically  strange  and 
deliciously  familiar. 


Deep  within,  a  point  of  heat 
in  my  groin,  slowly,  but 
powerfully  and  inevitably 
radiated  throughout  my 
body  until  every  cell  be- 
came a  sun  emanating  its 
own  life-giving  fire. 


My  body  was  an  energy 
field,  a  set  of  vibrations 
with  each  cell,  pulsing  in 
phase  with  every  other. 


And  Billy,  whose  cells 
now  danced  the  same  tune, 
was  no  longer  a  discrete 
entity,  but  a  resonating  part 
of  the  single  set  of  vibra- 
tions. The  energy  was  love. 

00 


mination— a  jewel-like  satori.  It  was  not  cellular,  not 
somatic,  not  sensory.  It  was  a  world  of  vibrations. 
No  fear.  Some  moments  of  benign  paranoia— that  I 
was  the  happy  victim  of  some  celestial  plan  for 
illumination. 

Immediately  after  my  return  the  drug  was  ad- 
ministered to  the  Hindu  monk.  This  dedicated  man 
had  spent  fourteen  years  in  meditation  and  renun- 
ciation. He  was  a  sannyasin  entitled  to  wear  the 
sacred  saffron  robe.  He  had  participated  in  several 
psychedelic  drug  sessions  with  extremely  positive 
results  and  was  convinced  that  the  biochemical 
road  to  samadhi  was  not  only  valid  but  perhaps  the 
most  natural  method  for  people  living  in  a  techno- 
logical civilization. 

His  reaction  to  DMT  was,  however,  confusing 
and  unpleasant.  Catapulted  into  a  sudden  ego-loss, 
he  struggled  to  rationalize  his  experience  in  terms 
of  classic  Hindu  techniques.  He  kept  looking  up  at 
the  group  in  puzzled  helplessness.  Suspicion.  Re- 
proach. Defiance.  Promptly  at  twenty-five  minutes 
he  sat  up,  laughed  sheepishly,  What  a  paranoid 
trip!  I  really  got  trapped. 

The  lesson  was  clear.  DMT,  like  the  other  psy- 
chedelic keys,  could  open  an  infinity  of  possibilities. 
Set,  setting,  suggestibility,  temperamental  back- 
ground were  always  there  as  filters  through  which 
the  ecstatic  experience  could  be  distorted. 

Thus  also  in  nature  a  holy  seriousness  is  to  be  seen 
in  the  fact  that  natural  occurrences  are  uniformly 
subject  to  law.  Contemplation  of  the  divine  mean- 
ing underlying  the  workings  of  the  universe  gives  to 
the  man  who  is  called  upon  to  influence  others  the 
means  of  producing  like  effects.  ( I  Ching  XX ) 

On  return  to  Cambridge,  arrangements  were 
made  with  a  drug  company  and  with  our  medical 
consultant  to  run  a  systematic  research  on  the  new 
substance.  During  the  subsequent  months  we  ran 
over  one  hundred  sessions— at  first  training  exer- 
cises for  experienced  researchers  and  then  later 
trials  with  subjects  completely  inexperienced  in 
psychedelic  matters. 

The  percentage  of  successful,   ecstatic  sessions 


Winter  1961  00    269 


ran  high— over  90  percent.  The  set-setting  hypoth- 
esis clearly  held  for  DMT  in  regard  to  positive 
experiences.  But  there  were  certain  definite  charac- 
teristics of  the  DMT  experience  which  were  mark- 
edly different  from  the  standard  psychedelics— 
LSD,  psilocybin,  mescaline.  First  of  all,  the  dura- 
tion. The  eight-hour  trip  was  reduced  to  around 
thirty  minutes.  The  intensity  was  greater  as  well. 
This  is  to  say,  the  shattering  of  learned-form-per- 
ception, the  collapse  of  the  learned  structure  was 
much  more  pronounced. 

Eyes  closed  produced  a  soft,  silent,  lightning- 
fast,  whirling  dance  of  incredible  cellular  forms- 
acre  upon  acre  of  softly  spinning  organic  forms.  A 
swirling,  tumbling,  soft  rocket-ride  through  facto- 
ries of  tissue.  The  variety  and  irreality  of  the  precise, 
exquisite  feathery  clockwork  organic  machinery. 
Many  LSD  subjects  report  endless  odysseys 
through  the  network  of  circulatory  tunnels.  But 
with  DMT  a  sub-cellular  cloud-ride  into  a  world  of 
ordered,  moving  beauty  which  defies  external  met- 
aphor. 

Eyes  open  produced  a  similar  collapse  of  external 
objects.  Faces  and  things  no  longer  had  form  but 
were  seen  as  a  shimmering  play  of  vibrations.  Per- 
ception of  solid  structures  was  seen  to  be  a  function 
of  visual  nets,  mosaics,  cobwebs  of  light-energy. 

The  transcendence  of  ego-space-time  was  most 
often  noticed.  Subjects  frequently  complained  that 
they  became  so  lost  in  the  lovely  flow  of  timeless 
existences  that  the  experience  ended  too  soon  and 
was  so  smooth  that  landmarks  were  lacking  to  make 
memory  very  detailed.  The  usual  milestones  for 
perception  and  memory  were  lacking.  There  could 
be  no  memory  of  the  sequence  of  visions  because 
there  was  no  time— and  no  memory  of  structure 
because  space  was  converted  into  flowing  process. 

To  deal  with  this  problem  we  began  to  program 
sessions.  The  subject  would  be  asked  every  two 
minutes  to  respond,  or  he  would  be  presented  with 
an  agreed-upon  stimulus  every  two  minutes.  The 
landmarks  would,  in  this  way,  be  provided  by  the 
experiment.  The  temporal  sequence  could  be 
broken  up  into  stages. 

One  of  the  first  programmed  space  shots  with 


From  "The  Experiential 
Typewriter"  by  Timothy 
Leary,  in  the  Psychedelic 
Review: 

The  communication  prob- 
lem is  like  this.  Suppose  we 
put  a  subject  in  the  front 
seat  of  a  roller  coaster  and 
we  sit  next  to  him  during 
the  dizzy  ride. 


As  the  car  plummets  down 
the  first  gasping  descent 
we  ask  him,  What  do  you 
see  and  feel? 


By  the  time  we  have  said 
the  second  word  the  car 
has  flashed  down  into  the 
black  descent  and  is 
screeching  around  a  turn. 


As  the  car  starts  to  pull  up 
the  next  incline  he  says, 
What  did  you  say?  When  we 
repeat  the  question  he 
looks  at  us  blankly. 


Well,  it  happened  too  fast. 
I  just  can't  put  into  words. 
So  the  next  time  we  pre- 
pare the  subject. 


270  00   Are  Heaven  and  Hell  Real? 


We  tell  him  that  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  hurtling  ride 
downward  we  are  going  to 
ask  him  about  what  he  sees 
and  feels.  It  still  won't 
work  with  words. 


As  he  rockets  down  the 
descent  the  most  he  can 
stutter  is,  Oooh.  Lights  .  .  . 
and.  ...  By  this  time  he 
is  around  the  dark  bend 
and  heading  up. 


It's  just  too  fast  for  words, 
is  about  the  best  you  are 
going  to  get.  Now  the  ac- 
tion of  the  cortex  is  per- 
haps a  million  times  faster 
and  more  complex  than  re- 
actions to  a  roller  coaster 
ride. 


And  that's  why  you  should 
never  ask  a  subject  during 
an  LSD  session  what  he  is 
experiencing.  Now  suppose 
we  install  a  recording 
gadget  on  the  roller  coaster. 


Let's  imagine  twenty  but- 
tons which  the  subject  will 
push  to  record  his  reac- 
tions. One  button  is  for 
fear  and  another  for  thrill 
and  another  for  lights  and 
another  is  for  sick  and  an- 
other is  for  dizzy. 


DMT  involved  a  three-person  crew— myself,  Ralph 
Metzner,  and  his  wise  wife  Susan.  The  instrument 
for  radioing  messages  back  was  the  experiential 
typewriter.  This  device  is  designed  to  allow  non- 
verbal communication  during  psychedelic  sessions. 
There  are  two  keyboards  with  ten  buttons  for  each 
hand.  The  twenty  keys  are  connected  to  a  twenty- 
pen  polygraph  which  registers  an  ink  mark  on  a 
flowing  roll  of  paper  each  time  a  key  is  struck. 

The  subject  must  learn  the  codes  for  the  range  of 
experience  before  the  session  and  is  trained  to 
respond  automatically,  indicating  the  area  of  his 
consciousness. 

In  this  trip  it  was  agreed  that  I  would  be  ques- 
tioned every  two  minutes,  to  indicate  the  content  of 
my  awareness. 

The  session  took  place  in  a  special  room,  eight-by- 
twenty,  which  was  completely  covered,  ceiling, 
walls,  and  floor,  by  warm,  colorful  Indian  prints. 
The  session  followed  the  alternating-guide  model. 
Ralph  and  Susan  were  to  act  as  interrogators  for  my 
session.  Ralph  was  then  to  repeat  the  session  with 
me  as  ground  control. 

At  8: 10  p.m.  I  received  6o  mgs.  of  DMT. 

Lay  back  on  mattress,  arranging  cushions  .  .  . 
relaxed  and  anticipatory  .  .  .  somewhat  amused 
by  our  attempt  to  impose  time-content  mileposts  on 
the  flow  of  process  .  .  .  soft  humming  noise  .  .  . 
eyes  closed  .  .  .  suddenly,  as  if  someone  touched  a 
button,  the  static  darkness  of  retina  is  illuminated 
.  .  .  enormous  toy-jewel-clock  factory,  Santa  Claus 
workshop  .  .  .  not  impersonal  or  engineered,  but 
jolly,  comic,  lighthearted.  The  dance  of  the  body, 
humming  with  energy,  billions  of  variegated  forms 
spinning,  clicking  through  their  appointed  rounds 
in  the  smooth  ballet.  .  .  . 

MINUTE    2.    TIM,    WHERE    ARE    YOU    NOW?    Ralph's 

voice,  stately,  precise,  scientific,  kind  .  .  .  what? 
where?  you?  .  .  .  open  eyes  .  .  .  there  squatting 
next  to  me  are  two  magnificent  insects  .  .  .  skin 
burnished,  glowing  metallic,  with  hammered  jewels 
inlaid  .  .  .  richly  costumed  researchers,  they 
looked  at  me  sweetly  .  .  .  dear,  radiant  Venusian 
crickets  .  .  .  one  has  a  pad  in  his  lap  and  is  hold- 
ing out  a  gem-encrusted  box  with  undulating  trape- 


272  00   Are  Heaven  and  Hell  Real? 


Then  we  train  the  subject 
for  hours  in  the  code  sys- 
tem until  he  gets  to  that 
point  of  automatic  pro- 
ficiency of  the  touch  typist 
who  can  rattle  off  copy 
without  thinking  of  what  she 
is  doing,  banging  out  sev- 
enty words  a  minute  while 
thinking  about  the  dress 
she  is  going  to  wear  to- 
night. 


Then  we  strap  the  subject's 
hands  to  the  dials  of  the 
twenty-button  recorder  and 
send  him  down  the  roller- 
coaster  ride. 


He  can  now  give  us  per- 
haps twenty  to  a  hundred 
codes  a  second  which  we 
pick  up  on  a  polygraph 
(i.e.,  a  multi-pen  recorder 
attached  to  the  sending 
keys). 


That's  the  experiential  type- 
writer and  that's  how  it's 
used  and  why  such  a  device 
is  necessary  to  record  psy- 
chedelic experiences  during 
the  session. 


zoidal  glowing  sections  .  .  .  questioning  look 
.  .  .  incredible  .  .  .  and  next  to  him  Mrs. 
Diamond  Cricket  softly  slides  into  a  latticework  of 
vibrations  .  .  .  Dr.    Ruby-emerald    Cricket   smiles 

.    .    .   TIM    WHERE    ARE    YOU    NOW.    .    .    .    Moves    box 

towards  me  ...  on  yes  ..  .  try  to  tell  them  .  .  . 
where.  .  .  .  Body  ...  I  am  swimming  in  tissue 
tidelands  .  .  .  body  consciousness  .  .  .  use  mind 
.  .  .  explain  .  .  .  look  down  at  undulating  boxes 
.  .  .  struggle  to  focus  .  .  .  use  mind  .  .  .  yes 
.  .  .  also  .  .  .  cognitive  .  .  .  there.  .  .  .  Eyes 
close  .  .  .  back  to  dancing  workshop  .  .  .  joy 
.  .  .  incredible  beauty  .  .  .  the  wonder,  wonder, 
wonder  .  .  .  thanks  .  .  .  thanks  for  the  chance  to 
see  the  dance  .  .  .  infinity  of  life  forms  .  .  . 
funny  exotic  energy  nets.  .  .  . 

MINUTE   4.    TIM,   WHERE   ARE   YOU   NOW?    Spinning 

out  in  the  tapestry  of  space  comes  the  voice  from 
down  below  .  .  .  dear  kindly  earth-voice  .  .  . 
earth-station  calling  .  .  .  where  are  you?  .  .  . 
what  a  joke  .  .  .  how  to  answer  ...  I  am  in  the 
bubbling  beaker  of  the  cosmic  alchemist  ...  no, 
no  softly  falling  star  dust  exploding  in  the  branches 
of  the  stellar  ivory  birch  tree  .  .  .  what?  Open 
eyes  ...  oh  dear  lapidary  insect  friends  .  .  . 
Ralph  and  Susan  beautiful  orange  lobsters  watch- 
ing me  gently  .  .  .  faces  shattered  into  stained- 
glass  mosaic  ...  Dr.  Tiffany  Lobster  holds  out  the 
casket  of  trapezoidal  sections  .  .  .  look  at  glowing 
key  .  .  .  where  is  Venusian  ecstasy  key?  .  .  . 
where  is  key  for  the  stellar  explosion  of  the  year 
3000?  cellular  genetic  .  .  .  yes  ...  hit  the 
key  .  .  .  tumble  back  to  Perosopic  pulse. 

How  nice  .  .  .  they  are  down  there  .  .  .  wait- 
ing ...  no  words  up  here  to  describe  .  .  .  they 
have  words  down  there  .  .  .  see  rolling  waves  of 
colored  forms  whirling  up,  bouncing  jolly  .  .  . 
where  do  they  come  from  .  .  .  who  is  architect 
.  .  .  it's  all  worked  out  .  .  .  it's  all  on  auto-pilot 
.  .  .  my  body  begins  to  disintegrate  .  .  .  flow  out 
into  the  river  of  evolution  .  .  .  good-bye  .  .  . 
gone  star  space  in  orgasm  pulses  of  particle  motion 
.  .  .  release  .  .  .  flashing  light,  light,  light.   .   .   . 

minute  6.  Tim,  where  are  you  now?  Earth  voice 
calling  .  .  .  you  there,  meson  hurtling  in  nuclear 


Winter  1961  00    273 


orbit  .  .  .  incorporate  .  .  .  trap  the  streaking 
energy  particle  .  .  .  slow  down  .  .  .  freeze  into 
body  structure  .  .  .  return  .  .  .  with  flick  of  open 
eye  the  nuclear  dance  suddenly  skids  into  static 
form  .  .  .  see  two  clusters  of  electrons  shimmer- 
ing .  .  .  the  energy  dance  caught  momentarily  in 
friendly  robot  form  .  .  .  hello  .  .  .  next  to  them  a 
candle  flame  .  .  .  center  of  million-armed  web  of 
light  beams  .  .  .  the  room  is  caught  in  a  lattice  of 
light-energy  .  .  .  shimmering.  .  .  .  finger  taps  mo- 
lecular   .    .    .    molecular    ...    Ah    yes    .    .    . 

MOLECULAR.    .    .    . 

Eyes  closed  but  after-image  of  candle  flame  re- 
mains .  .  .  eyeballs  trapped  in  orbit  around  in- 
ternal light  center  .  .  .  celestial  radiance  from  the 
light  center  .  .  .  light  of  sun  ...  all  light  is  sun 
.  .  .  light  is  life  .  .  .  live,  luce,  life  ...  all  life  is 
frail  filament  of  light  .  .  .  solar  silent  sound  .  .  . 
sun-flare  .  .  .  light-life.  .  .  . 

MINUTE    8.    TIM?    WHERE    ARE    YOU    NOW?    In    the 

heart  of  the  sun's  hydrogen  explosion  .  .  .  our 
globe  is  light's  globe  .  .  .  open  eyes  drape  curtain 
over  sun  flare  .  .  .  open  eyes  bring  blindness  .  .  . 
shut  off  internal  radiance  .  .  .  see  chiaroscuro 
God  holding  shadow  box  .  .  .  where  is  life?  .  .  . 
press  molecular.  .  .  . 

Keep  eyes  open  .  .  .  fixed  caught  .  .  .  hypno- 
tized .  .  .  whole  room,  flowered  walls,  cushions, 
candle,  human  forms  all  vibrating  ...  all  waves 
having  no  form  .  .  .  terrible  stillness  .  .  .  just 
silent  energy  flow  ...  if  you  move  you  will  shatter 
the  pattern  ...  all  remembered  forms,  meanings, 
identities  meaningless  .  .  .  gone  .  .  .  pitiless 
emanation  of  physical  waves  .  .  .  television  im- 
pulses crackling  across  an  interstellar  grid  ...  our 
sun  one  point  on  astrophysical  television  screen 
.  .  .  our  galaxy  tiny  cluster  of  points  on  one  corner 
of  TV  screen  .  .  .  the  ten-billion-year  cycle  of  our 
universe  is  a  milli-second  flash  of  light  on  the 
cosmic  screen  flowing  endlessly  with  images.  .  .  . 

MINUTE   10.   TIM,  WHERE  ARE  YOU  NOW?  GrOUnd- 

tower  beaming  up  navigational  query  .  .  .  flood  of 
amazed  love  that  we  can  contact  each  other  .  .  . 
we  do  remain  in  contact  .  .  .  where  was  that  clus- 
ter  then   .    .    .   hallucinating   .    .    .   science-fiction 


Dr.  Metzner's  report  of 
Leary's  DMT  trip: 

At  two  minutes  the  subject 
was  smiling  with  eyes 
closed. 


When  asked  to  report  he 
opened  his  eyes,  looked  at 
the  observers  curiously, 
smiled. 


When  the  orientation  ques- 
tion was  repeated  he 
chuckled. 


Moved    his    finger    search- 
ingly  over  the  typewriter. 


And  with  a  look  of  amused 
tolerance  stabbed  at  the 
BODY  CONSCIOUSNESS 
and  SYMBOL  THINKING 
keys. 


He   then   fell   back   with 
sigh  and  closed  his  eyes. 


274  00    Are  Heaven  and  Hell  Real? 


At  four  minutes  the  subject 
was  still  smiling  with  eyes 
closed. 


When  asked  to  report,  he 
opened  his  eyes  and 
laughed.  .  .  . 


He  looked  at  the  observers 
with  a  smile  .  .  .  studied  the 
keyboard  of  the  typewriter, 
and  pressed  the  CELLULAR- 
GENETIC  CODE  EXTERNAL 
key. 


He     then     fell     back     and 
closed  his  eyes. 


At  six  minutes  the  subject 
had  just  finished  frowning 
in  what  seemed  like  a  pass- 
ing fear  or  problem. 


metaphors  .  .  .  where   is   the   key  .  .  .  there  .  .  . 

HALLUCINATIONS     .     .     .     SYMBOLS     .     .     .     CELLS     .     .     . 

molecules  .  .  .  merging  hallucinations. 

My  mind  returns  .  .  .  labeling  .  .  .  diagnosing 
the  endless  flow  .  .  .  loss  of  space-time  .  .  . 
merging  with  energy  flux  .  .  .  seeing  all  life  forms 
as  physical  waves  .  .  .  loss  of  body  .  .  .  existence 
as  energy  .  .  .  awareness  that  our  bodies  are  mo- 
mentary clusters  of  energy  and  that  we  are  capable 
of  tuning  in  on  patterns  .  .  .  the  certainty  that  life 
processes  are  on  "auto-pilot"  .  .  .  there  is  nothing 
to  fear  or  worry  about  .  .  .  sudden  understanding 
of  the  meaning  of  terms  from  Indian  philosophy 
such  as  maya,  maha-maya,  lila  .  .  .  insight  into  the 
nature  and  varieties  of  transcendent  states  .  .  .  the 
void-white-light-contentless,  inorganic  ecstasy  .  .  . 
the  fcwnc^mi-life-force-biological-squirming-moist- 
sexual  organic  ecstasy  .  .  .  the  singing-genetic- 
code-blueprint-temporary-structuring-of-form  ec- 
stasy and  the  .  .  . 

MINUTE    12.    TIM,    WHERE    ARE    YOU    NOW?    Open 

eyes  .  .  .  laugh  .  .  .  caught  by  vigilant  ground- 
tower  while  orbiting  around  earthly-mind-figure-it- 
out  area  .  .  .  where  is  key  for  thinking  game  .  .  . 

press  COGNITIVE  .  .  .  HALLUCINATIONS  .  .  .  CELLS 
.    .    .    MOLECULES.    .    .    . 

Above  head  is  lightbulb  covered  with  scalloped 
light-blue  shade  .  .  .  circling  up  to  the  glowing 
shade  are  ribbons  of  waves  .  .  .  silent  .  .  . 
beckoning  .  .  .  inviting  .  .  .  join  the  dance  .  .  . 
leave  your  robot  ...  a  whole  universe  of  delight- 
ful, aerial  choreography  awaits  .  .  .  yes  join 
them  .  .  .  suddenly,  like  smoke  rising  from  a  ciga- 
rette, consciousness  circled  up  .  .  .  swooping 
graceful  gull-paths  up  to  light  source  and,  sound- 
less, through  into  another  dimension  .  .  .  billions- 
of-protein-file-cards,  helical  in  shape,  flicking 
through,  confronting  me  with  endless  library  of 
events,  forms,  visual  perceptions,  memories,  not 
abstract  but  pulsing  .  .  .  now  .  .  .  experiential 
...  a  billion  years  of  coded  experience,  classified, 
preserved  in  brilliant,  living  clarity  that  makes  ordi- 
nary reality  seem  like  an  out-of-focus,  tattered, 
jerky,  fluttering  of  peep-show  cards,  tawdry  and 
worn.  .  .  . 


276  00    Are  Heaven  and  Hell  Real? 


When  contacted  to  report, 
he  glanced  around  the 
room  and  without  hesitation 


pressed  the  MOLECULAR 
CONSCIOUSNESS  (exter- 
nal) key. 


He  then  closed  his  eyes. 


At  eight  minutes  the  sub- 
ject, who  had  been  lying 
motionless  against  the 
cushions  .  .  . 


.  .  .  opened  his  eyes. 


His  expression  was  dazed, 
surprised. 


Without  expression  he 
pressed  the  key  for  MOLEC- 
ULAR CONSCIOUSNESS 
(internal). 


From  eight  to  ten  minutes 
the  subject  sat  motion- 
less .  .  . 

.  .  .  eyes  open  in  a  trance- 
like state. 


MINUTE  14.  TIM,  WHERE  ARE  YOU  NOW?  Oh  where 

are  we?  ...  oh  listen,  here's  where  we  are  .  .  . 
once  there  was  a  glowing  electric  dot,  a  flash  re- 
flected from  the  heart  of  a  cut  diamond  which,  oh 
there,  now,  caught  the  light  of  sun  flame  and 
glittered  .  .  .  sudden  flash  in  Precambrian  mud 
.  .  .  the  dot  stirs  and  quivers  with  tremble-strain- 
exultant-singing-throbbing-shuddering  twist  up- 
wards and  a  serpent  began  to  writhe  up  and  through 
the  soft,  warm  silt  .  .  .  tiny,  the  size  of  a  virus  .  .  . 
growing  .  .  .  the  enormous  length  of  a  microscopic 
bacillus  .  .  .  flowing  exultantly,  always  singing  the 
Hindu  flute-song  .  .  .  always  bursting  out,  enfoli- 
ating  .  .  .  now  the  size  of  the  moss  root,  churning 
through  fibered-cunt-mattress-moist-spasm  churn- 
ing .  .  .  growing  .  .  .  exfoliating  its  own  vision 
.  .  .  always  blind  except  for  the  forward  point  of 
light-eye  .  .  .  now  belts  of  serpent  skin,  mosaic- 
jeweled,  rhythmically  jerking,  snakewise  forward 
.  .  .  now  the  size  of  a  tree-trunk,  gnarled  and 
horny  with  the  sperm-sap  moving  within  .  .  .  now 
swelling,  tumescent  into  Mississippi  flood  of  tissue 
writhing  .  .  .  pink,  silt  current  of  singing-fire  .  .  . 
now  circling  globe,  squeezing  green  salt  oceans 
and  jagged  brownshale  mountains  with  constrictor 
grasp  .  .  .  flowing  blindly,  now  a  billion-mile  end- 
less electric-cord  vertebrated  writhing  cobra  singing 
Hindu  flute-song  .  .  .  penis  head  throbbing!!  ... 
blind,  except  for  the  one  second  each  cell  in  the 
advancing  parade  is  permitted  that  one  moment 
face-to-face,  eyeball  to  solar  flame  insight  into  the 
past-future.  .  .  . 

TiM,  tim,  where  are  you  now?  La  Guardia 
tower  repeats  request  for  contact  with  the  ship  lost 
out  of  radar  scope  .  .  .  where?  ...  I  am  eye  of 
the  great  snake  ...  a  fold  of  serpent  skin,  radiat- 
ing trapezoidal  inquiry  swims  into  focus  .  .  .  reg- 
ister conscious  content  .  .  .  where  are  you?  .  .  . 
here  .  .  .  internal  hallucinations,  cellular- 
genetic  MEMORIES.   .   .   . 

The  session  continued  with  two-minute  interrup- 
tions until  the  twentieth  minute  in  the  same  pat- 
tern. Timeless  flights  into  hallucinatory  or  pure 
energy  vibration  fields  with  sudden  contractions  to 
reality  in  response  to  the  observer  questions. 


Winter  1961  00    277 


This  session  suggested  some  solutions  to  the 
problem  of  communicating  during  psychedelic  ex- 
periences. The  person  "up  there"  is  being  whirled 
through  experiences  which  spin  by  so  rapidly  and 
contain  structural  content  so  different  from  our 
familiar  macroscopic  forms  that  he  cannot  possibly 
describe  where  he  is  or  what  he  is  experiencing. 

Consider  the  analogy  to  the  pilot  of  a  plane  who 
has  lost  his  bearings  and  who  contacts  La  Guardia 
tower  by  radio.  The  pilot  is  experiencing  many 
events— he  can  describe  the  cloud  formations, 
lightning  flashes,  the  etching  of  ice  on  the  plane 
window— but  none  of  this  makes  any  sense  to  the 
tower  technicians  who  are  attempting  to  plot  his 
course  in  the  three-dimensional  language  of  naviga- 
tion. The  person  "up  there"  cannot  provide  the 
categories.  The  ground  control  personnel  must 
radio  them  "up."  Cessna  64  Bravo,  our  radar  scopes 
show  you  are  fifteen  miles  southwest  of  Interna- 
tional Airport.  The  red  glow  you  see  is  the  reflec- 
tion of  Manhattan.  To  head  on  a  course  for  Boston 
you  must  change  your  course  to  57  degrees  and 
maintain  an  altitude  of  5500. 

But  the  language  of  psychology  is  not  sophisti- 
cated enough  to  provide  such  parameters.  Nor  are 
there  experiential  compasses  to  determine  direc- 
tion. 

What  we  can  do  at  this  point  is  to  set  up  "flight 
plans."  The  subject  can  work  out,  before  the  ses- 
sion, the  areas  of  experience  he  wishes  to  contact; 
and  he  can  plan  the  temporal  sequence  of  his 
visionary  voyage.  He  will  not  be  able  during  the 
flight  to  tell  "ground  control"  where  he  is,  but 
ground  control  can  contact  him  and  tell  him  where 
to  proceed.  Thus,  during  this  session  when  Ralph 
asked  where  are  you  now?  I  could  not  respond.  I 
had  to  descend,  slow  up  the  flow  of  experience, 
and  then  tell  him  where  I  had  been  or  where  I 
ended  up. 

When  the  contact  question  came  I  would  be 
hurtling  through  other  galaxies.  In  order  to  re- 
spond, I  had  to  stop  my  free  rocketing,  tumbling 
flight,  return  near  the  earth  and  say,  I  am  over  New 
Haven. 

The   session   was   a   continual   series   of   come- 


There   was   no   attempt   to 
communicate. 


When  contacted  he  moved 
slowly  but  surely  and 
pressed  the  TRIPLE  EX- 
POSURE HALLUCINATION: 
SYMBOLIC-CELLULAR- 
MOLECULAR  key. 


From  the  tenth  to  twelfth 
minute  the  subject  sat  look- 
ing blankly  and  without 
motion  at  the  wall  of  the 
room. 


When  contacted  he  smiled. 


And  pressed  the  DOUBLE 
EXPOSURE  HALLUCINA- 
TION—CELLULAR MEM- 
ORY PLUS  SYMBOLIC 
THINKING  key. 


From  minute  twelve  to  four- 
teen the  subject  sat  silent 
with  eyes  closed. 


When  contacted  he  failed  to 
respond  and  after  thirty 
seconds  was  contacted 
again. 


278  00   Are  Heaven  and  Hell  Real? 


He  then  pressed  INTERNAL 
CELLULAR  MEMORY  HAL- 
LUCINATION key. 


This  session  suggests  that 
a  more  efficient  way  to 
chart  psychedelic  experi- 
ences would  be  to: 


1)  Memorize  the  keyboard 
of  the  experiential  type- 
writer so  that  communica- 
tion down  to  ground  con- 
trol could  be  automatic. 


2)  Plan  the  flight  in  such 
a  way  that  the  ground  con- 
trol would  not  ask  unan- 
swerable questions — Where 
am  I  indeed! — but  would 
tell  the  subject  where  to  go. 


Then  the  communication 
task  of  the  voyager  would 
be  to  indicate  if  he  were  on 
course  .  .  . 


.  .  .  i.e.,  that  he  was  or  was 
not  following  the  flight  in- 
structions radioed  up  by 
ground  control. 


Ground  control  should  send 
up  stimuli. 


Suggestivity  is  wide  open. 
La  Guardia  tower  directs 
the  flight. 


downs.  I  repeatedly  had  to  stop  the  flow  in  order  to 
respond.  My  cortex  was  receiving  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  impulses  a  second;  but  in  order  to 
respond  to  ground  control's  questions  I  had  to 
grind  the  ship  to  a  slow  stall  to  say,  I  was  there,  I 
am  here,  but  now  that  has  moved  too. 

The  Heisenberg  principle. 

Psychedelic  research  is  experimental  philosophy, 
empirical  metaphysics,  visionary  science. 

Psychedelic  drugs  offer  new  perspectives  on 
every  aspect  of  human  thinking,  human  behavior, 
human  searching.  There  is  no  issue  in  psychology, 
physics,  biology,  and  theology  which  cannot  make 
use  of  these  microscopes  of  consciousness.  The 
discovery  of  LSD  is  as  important  to  philosophy  and 
psychology  and  religion  as  the  discovery  of  the 
microscope  was  to  biology. 

Psychedelic  drugs  allow  us  to  study— directly, 
experientially,  empirically— the  problems  which 
have  perplexed  philosophers  for  millennia.  Indeed, 
the  psychedelic  drugs  force  you,  like  it  or  not, 
prepared  or  not,  to  become  a  philosopher.  You  are 
flung  bodily  into  convulsive,  terrorized  contact  with 
such  ancient  problems  as:  What  is  real?  What  is 
true?  What  is  good?  What  is  beautiful? 

Since  i960  our  psychedelic  explorations  have 
forced  us,  agonizingly  at  times,  to  deal  with  these 
crucial  questions. 

We  came  to  the  exhausting  conclusion  that  each 
person  must  work  out  all  the  answers  himself.  Each 
person  must  be  his  own  Moses,  his  own  Augustine, 
his  own  Buddha,  his  own  Aquinas,  his  own  Darwin, 
his  own  Einstein.  You  have  to  experience  their 
confusion,  their  groping  ignorance;  you  have  to 
work  out  their  exultant  answers.  You  must  do  it 
yourself  in  the  swirling  crucible  of  the  out-of-the- 
mind  session  after  you  discover  to  your  terror  that 
the  answers  you  thought  you  had  were  canned 
chessboard  symbols. 

In  our  DMT  experiments  we  dealt  empirically 
with  the  issue  of  universals  and  names.  God-Devil, 
heaven-hell,  good-bad,  ugly-beauty.  Our  answer: 
nothing  exists  except  undulating  energy  and  flow- 
ing consciousness  upon  which  the  grasping  mind 
imposes  categories.  The  categories  have  nothing  to 


Winter  1961  00   279 


do  with  the  energy-flow.  Any  temporary  energy 
constellation  can  be  divine,  diabolic,  beautiful,  de- 
pending on  your  symbolic  interpretation. 

.  .  .  Liberated  from  his  ego,  he  contemplates  the 
laws  of  life  and  so  realizes  that  knowing  how  to 
become  free  of  blame  is  the  highest  good.  ( I  Ching ) 

But  the  symbols,  the  names  are  real  too.  It  is 
possible  and  indeed  necessary  to  create  symbols  for 
mapping  and  guiding.  The  symbols  apply  only  for 
the  space-time  dimension  we  arbitrarily  and  con- 
sciously impose. 

You  and  I  can  agree  on  names  for  certain  game 
sequences  and  we  can  communicate  accurately 
within  the  game  context.  We'll  call  this  first  base 
and  that  New  Haven.  We  can  develop  maps  and 
guidebooks  for  different  levels  of  consciousness, 
knowing  that  the  names  are  artifacts,  that  the  map 
is  not  the  territory. 

The  psychedelic  experience  is  indescribable,  in- 
effable, but  so  is  every  other  experience.  We  can 
build  a  language  to  get  you  to  Yankee  Stadium  at  3 
p.m.  on  a  summer  Sunday  afternoon  and  teach  you 
how  to  score  the  game.  We  can  build  a  language  to 
get  you  out  of  your  twentieth-century  mind  and 
spin  you  back  into  eerie  LSD  landscapes  and  teach 
you  how  to  score  the  game.  Neither  scorecard 
comes  close  to  matching  the  intricate  energy  ex- 
changes involved  in  the  trip  to  the  ballpark  or  the 
trip  to  your  inner  galaxies,  but  the  goal  and  chal- 
lenge of  being  a  human  being  is  to  visit  more  and 
more  distant  ballparks  and  to  build  more  accurate 
scorecards. 


Approximately  how  much 
of  the  session  (in  10  per- 
cent of  time)  was  spent  in 
each  of  the  following  areas? 


A)  Interpersonal  games,  10 
percent  (fondness  for  ob- 
servers). 


B)  Exploring  to  discover 
self,  or  self  games,  0  per- 
cent. 


C)  Other  games  (social,  in- 
tellectual, religious),  70  per- 
cent (intellectual,  struggling 
with  problems  of  communi- 
cation). 


D)  Non-game  transcen- 
dence, 20  percent  (contin- 
ually interrupted  by  ques- 
tions). 

00 


contemplation.  The  ablution  has 

been  made, 
But  not  yet  the  offering. 
Full  of  trust  they  look  up  to  him. 

(I  Ching) 


^ 


When  Will  You  Be  Ready  to  Admit      H 
You  Are  a  Divine  Messenger?      pq 

o 

133 

3 

M 

58 
H 

O 
Spring  1962  g 

Guide:     sakti,  divine  nun  ^ 

Oracle:  XXII  q 

w 

Grace  d 

130 

o 

a 

Keeping  Still,  Mountain 


The  Clinging,  Fire 


Fire  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain: 
The  image  of  grace. 
Thus  does  the  superior  man  proceed 
When  clearing  up  current  affairs. 
But  he  dare  not  decide  controversial  issues  in 
this  way. 

(IChing) 


TRIP  14 


From  Time: 

In  every  age,  men  have 
struggled  to  perceive  God 
directly  rather  than  as  a 
tenuously  grasped  abstrac- 
tion. Few  succeed,  and  the 
visions  of  the  world's  rare 
mystics  have  normally  come 
only  after  hard"  spiritual 
work — prayer,  meditation, 
ascetic  practice. 


At  the  time  I  ate  the  sacred  mushrooms  of  Mexico  I 
called  myself  as  follows:  an  atheist,  a  rationalist, 
skeptical  of  any  sort  of  authority,  ritual,  tradition, 
faith,  or  magic,  an  empiricist— intolerant  of  scholas- 
tic speculation  and  Talmudic  juggling.  An  arrogant 
disdainer  of  fear-directed  bourgeois  conformity.  I 
was  convinced  that  the  choice  was  to  be  indepen- 
dent-effective-right or  obedient-routine-good,  but 
not  both. 


Now  a  number  of  psycholo- 
gists and  theologians  are 
exploring  such  hallucino- 
genic drugs  as  mescaline, 
psilocybin  and  LSD-25  as 
an  easy  way  to  instant  mys- 
ticism. 


In  large  enough  doses  these 
drugs  can  simulate  the  ef- 
fects of  certain  forms  of 
psychosis — to  the  point,  in 
some  cases,  of  permanent 
derangement. 


In  controlled,  minute  doses 
the  drugs  produce  weird 
and  wonderful  fantasies  of 
sight  and  feeling;  in 
Greenwich  Village  and  on 
college  campuses,  they 
seem  to  be  replacing  mari- 
juana as  the  hip  way  to  get 
kicks. 


The  high-school  principal  looked  at  me  calmly. 
You  have  consistently  ignored  the  principles  upon 
which  this  school  is  based.  The  Kantian  Categorical 
Imperative.  No  one  has  a  right  to  do  that  which  if 
everyone  did  would  destroy  society.  I  was  the 
editor  of  the  high-school  paper  which  had  just  won 
the  interstate  prize  for  excellence,  but  I  cut  classes 
and  skipped  school.  The  principal  slowly  turned  a 
fountain  pen  in  his  hand.  There  was  a  month  until 
graduation.  He  was  thinking  about  the  administra- 
tive trouble  involved  in  expelling  me.  He  was  get- 
ting close  to  retirement— a  wise  old  New  Englander. 
He  put  the  pen  down.  His  eyes  were  on  his  blotter. 
He  wouldn't  look  at  me.  I  never  want  to  see  you  or 
talk  to  you  again.  Just  stay  away  from  me  and  my 
office. 

No  cadet  was  allowed  to  sit  next  to  me  in  the 
West  Point  mess  hall,  and  I  was  required  to  request 
food  by  writing  on  a  pad  .  .  .  which  I  never  did. 
The  cadet  adjutant  had  climbed  up  to  the  observa- 
tion shelf  from  where  he  bellowed  out  his  cry  of 
"attention."  The  clatter  of  dishes  and  babble  of 
conversation  ceased.  Two  thousand  gray-coated 
cadets  sat  silently.  Headquarters,  United  States 
Military  Academy,  West  Point,  New  York,  August 
18,  1941.  In  the  case  of  Cadet  Timothy  Leary, 
second  class,  the  Honor  Committee  of  the  Cadet 


282 


Spring  1962  00    283 


Corps  agrees  to  accept  the  verdict  of  the  Court 
Martial.  Not  guilty.  At  ease. 

The  silence  hung  over  the  huge  hall,  larger  than 
three  football  fields,  and  then  hushed  conversations 
began.  That  afternoon  I  packed  my  gear  in  a  jeep 
and  drove  to  the  railroad  station  down  by  the 
Hudson  under  the  granite  fortress  cliffs.  First  class- 
men who  knew  and  sympathized  and  some  plebes 
who  didn't  know  but  sympathized  came  up  to 
shake  my  hand  (most  of  them,  by  habit,  still  main- 
taining the  silence),  and  a  colonel  attached  to  the 
superintendent's  office  stopped,  flagged  the  jeep 
down,  and  came  over  silently  and  shook  my  hand. 

It  took  a  moment  for  the  Jesuit  Dean  of  Students 
to  understand  my  refusal  of  his  offer  to  return  to 
Holy  Cross.  Then  his  face  flushed  with  red.  I  had 
never  seen  him  angry  before.  He  was  jolly,  cocky, 
friend-of-the-students  professor  and  wore  his  hard 
square  black  hat  jauntily  over  his  left  eye.  He 
turned  quickly,  black  robe  swirling,  and  stomped 
off. 

Social  systems  larger  than  the  clan  are  based  on 
irrational  and  unnecessary  fear  and  that's  why  they 
can't  tolerate  detached  action  no  matter  how 
effective. 

At  the  time  I  ate  the  sacred  mushrooms  in 
Mexico  I  was  a  rational  humanist.  Supremely  confi- 
dent but  empty  because,  although  I  could  predict 
and  master  the  game,  I  had  lost  the  thread  of 
mystery. 

I  had  run  through  and  beyond  the  middle-class 
professional  game  board.  There  were  no  surprise 
moves  left.  I  had  died  even  to  the  lure  of  ambition, 
power,  sex.  It  was  all  a  Monopoly  game— easy  to 
win  at  but  meaningless.  I  had  just  been  promised 
tenure  at  Harvard. 

Five  hours  after  eating  the  mushrooms  it  was  all 
changed.  The  revelation  had  come.  The  veil  had 
been  pulled  back.  The  classic  vision.  The  fullblown 
conversion  experience.  The  prophetic  call.  The 
works.  God  had  spoken. 

But  Peter,  standing  up  with  the  eleven,  lifted  up 
his  voice,  and  said  unto  them  .  .  .  hearken  to  my 


Some  investigators  who 
have  tried  the  drugs  claim 
to  have  undergone  a  pro- 
found spiritual  experience, 
and  these  men  are  seri- 
ously, if  gingerly,  studying 
the  undefined  relationship 
between  drug-induced  vi- 
sions and  the  classic  forms 
of  mystical  ecstasy. 


"The  void  was  lit  up."  For 
at  least  3,000  years,  primi- 
tive tribes  have  had  vision- 
ary orgies  at  feasts  of  cer- 
tain sacred  plants,  often 
mushrooms. 


The  use  of  the  peyote  cac- 
tus, from  which  mescaline 
is  derived,  is  a  regular  part 
of  the  communion  services 
of  the  native  American 
church,  composed  of  200,- 
000  U.S.  Indians. 


Novelist  Aldous  Huxley 
wrote  in  the  Doors  of  Per- 
ception that  mescaline  pro- 
duced in  him  an  effect  that 
seemed  like  seeing  the 
beatific  vision. 


Psychologist  Timothy  Leary, 
who  was  dropped  from  Har- 
vard faculty  last  spring  after 
receiving  strong  criticism 
for  his  freewheeling  re- 
search in  the  use  of  LSD 
and  psilocybin,  gave  the 
drugs  to  sixty-nine  full- 
time  religious  professionals, 
found  that  three  out  of  four 
had  intense  mystico-reli- 
gious  reactions,  and  more 
than  half  claimed  that  they 
had  the  deepest  spiritual 
experience  of  their  life. 


284  00    When  Will  You  Be  Ready? 


Such  spiritual  experiences 
range  from  heavenly  to 
hideous:  a  number  of  sub- 
jects suffer  through  ago- 
nizing intimations  of  hell 
rather  than  of  paradise. 


words:  For  this  is  that  which  was  spoken  by  the 
prophet  Joel:  And  it  shall  come  to  pass  in  the  last 
days,  saith  God,  I  will  pour  out  my  Spirit  upon  all 
flesh:  and  your  sons  and  your  daughters  shall 
prophesy,  and  your  young  men  shall  see  visions  and 
your  old  men  shall  dream  dreams.  .  .  . 


Most  instant  mystics  feel 
that  they  have  been  reborn, 
and  have  suddenly  been 
given  the  key  to  existence, 
although  their  intuition  usu- 
ally appears  in  the  form  of 
an  incommunicable  plati- 
tude, such  as,  oneness  is 
all. 


California  prison  psycholo- 
gist Wilson  Van  Dusen,  for 
example,  imagined  himself 
in  a  black  void  in  which 
"God  was  walking  on  me 
and  I  cried  for  joy. 


"My  own  voice  seemed  to 
speak  of  His  coming.  But 
I  didn't  believe  it.  Suddenly 
and  unexpectedly  the  zenith 
of  the  void  was  lit  up  with 
the  blinding  presence  of 
the  One. 


"How  did  I  know  it?  All  I 
can  say  is  that  there  was  no 
possibility  of  doubt." 


Union  with  God.  This  kind 
of  experience  seems  to  be 
at  least  subjectively  reli- 
gious; but  there  are  less 
convincing  cases  in  which 
drug  takers  appear  to  have 
read  religion  into  their  vi- 
sions or  rigged  the  setting 
to  induce  a  spiritual  ex- 
perience. 


It  was  for  me  the  authentic  Moses,  Mohammed, 
Blake,  Boehme,  Shankara,  St.  John  of  the  Cross, 
trip.  Now,  mind  you,  I'm  not  comparing  myself  to 
these  great  eloquent,  effective,  popular  newscasters 
from  the  central  broadcasting  station.  Millions  of 
unknown,  incoherent,  ineffective  persons  have 
stumbled  on  the  billion-year-old  ticker  tape  and  got 
the  message  and  have  been  unable  to  tune  it  back 
to  society.  But  believe  this— the  message  is  the 
same,  in  spite  of  the  transmitter,  and  I  got  the 
message  by  a  swimming  pool  in  Cuernavaca  in 
August  i960. 

Then  what? 

If  I  had  been  a  believing  psychologist,  the  temp- 
tation would  be  to  rush  back  to  the  tribe  and  use 
the  revelation  in  the  psychology  game— get  re- 
search grants,  write  scientific  articles,  become 
famous.  A  new  Freud.  So  simple  and  so  what. 

If  I  had  been  a  painter,  I  would  have  started 
etching  out  the  visions  and  gained  renown  and 
money  as  a  new  Salvador  Dali. 

If  I  had  been  a  businessman,  the  reflex  reaction 
to  the  mushroom  vision  would  be  commercial.  Busi- 
ness is  the  religion  of  America  and  the  best  way  to 
have  introduced  psychedelic  sacraments  into  the 
culture  would  have  been  to  market  them. 

I  recall  the  first  businessman  that  we  ever  turned- 
on.  He  was  a  friend  of  a  psychiatrist  who  brought 
him  over  one  Sunday  for  a  session.  After  a  couple 
of  hours  he  swam  up  to  me  with  that  ecstatic,  all- 
seeing  gleam  in  his  eye.  Magnificent!  I  see  it  all! 
Incredible!  Look,  Leary,  you've  got  to  get  me  a 
million  doses  of  this! 

I  smiled.  This  was  the  usual  reaction.  The  physi- 
cists wanted  a  million  doses  to  solve  the  non-exis- 
tent problem  of  space-time.  The  artists,  to  make  the 
world  beautiful. 

What  would  you  do  with  a  million  doses? 


Spring  1962  00    285 


The  merchant  looked  at  me  with  disdain.  Why, 
it's  obvious.  This  is  worth  a  hundred  dollars  a  dose. 
A  million  doses  is  a  hundred  million  bucks! 

If  it  weren't  for  my  scholars  prejudice  against 
commerce,  we  might  have  added  small  amounts  of 
psilocybin  to  ginger-ale  and  quinine-water  bottles 
and  sold  it  as  a  new  form  of  cocktail.  One  bottle 
would  have  been  the  equivalent  of  a  joint  of  mari- 
juana. Ten  bottles  would  produce  a  visionary  voy- 
age. Psilocybin  at  that  time  was  considered  a  mild, 
safe  form  of  mushroom  juice,  and  who  would  have 
objected  to  its  sale  in  health  stores?  What  would  be 
more  American  than  non-alcoholic  ecstasy  cocktails 
sold  for  a  profit? 

The  most  typical  thing  to  do  after  your  revelation 
is  to  announce  it  to  everyone.  Rush  back  and  tell 
everyone. 

Listen!  Wake  up!  You  are  God!  You  have  the 
Divine  plan  engraved  in  cellular  script  within  you. 
Listen!  Take  this  sacrament!  You'll  see!  You'll  get 
the  revelation!  It  will  change  your  life!  You'll  be 
reborn! 

I  started  doing  this  the  day  after  my  conversion. 
I  rushed  over  to  Tepoztlan  to  tell  the  MeClellands. 
Mary  McClelland  is  a  Quaker  mystic  and  she 
listened  with  interest  and  sympathy.  David  Mc- 
Clelland is  a  Presbyterian  convert  to  Quakerism. 
His  shock  and  horror  was  unmistakable.  If  I  had 
described  the  pleasure  of  heroin  or  sexual  seduction 
of  minors,  he  couldn't  have  shown  more  reflex 
dismay. 

I  found  myself  getting  poetic  and  dogmatic.  I 
know  it  is  a  real  reality!  I  know  it  is  the  Divine 
message!  David  McClelland  now  looked  alarmed. 
Clinical  diagnostic  glances.  Wow!  Do  I  have  a  nut 
on  my  hands  here?  He  was  my  boss  at  Harvard. 

I  shut  up  and  made  a  joke  about  Celtic  enthu- 
siasm and  we  talked  about  department  politics. 

I  was  faced  with  the  ancient  dilemma  of  the 
visionary  to  whom  God  has  spoken. 

After  his  illumination  the  Buddha  sat  for  forty- 
nine  days  and  nights  wondering  if  he  should  go 
back  and  tune-in  the  message.  He  knew  the  Hindu 
priesthood  would  be  angry. 

Mohammed  got  into  all  sorts  of  administrative 


One  professor  at  Protes- 
tant divinity  school  recalls 
that  he  was  handed  a  rose 
to  contemplate  after  taking 
his  dose  of  LSD. 


As  I  looked  at  the  rose  it 
began  to  glow,  he  said,  and 
suddenly  I  felt  that  I  under- 
stood the  rose. 


A  few  days  later  when  I 
reread  the  biblical  account 
of  Moses  and  the  burning 
bush  it  suddenly  made 
sense  to  me. 


Perhaps  the  best-known  de- 
liberate effort  to  create 
religious  experience  with 
drugs  was  a  special  ser- 
vice in  the  basement  chapel 
beneath  Boston  University's 
non-denominational  Marsh 
Chapel  on  Good  Friday  last 
year. 


Organ  music  was  piped  into 
the  dimly  lit  chapel  for  a 
group  of  twenty  subjects, 
half  of  whom  were  given 
LSD  while  the  rest  took 
placebos. 


A  minister  gave  a  brief  ser- 
mon, and  the  students  were 
left  alone  to  meditate.  Dur- 
ing the  next  three  hours,  all 
except  one  of  the  LSD 
takers  (but  only  one  of 
those  who  took  placebos) 
reported  a  genuine  religious 
experience. 


286  00    When  Will  You  Be  Ready? 


I  felt  a  deep  union  with  God, 
reports  one  participant.  I 
remember  feeling  a  pro- 
found sense  of  sorrow  that 
there  was  no  priest  or  min- 
ister at  the  altar. 


I  had  a  tremendous  urge 
to  go  up  on  the  altar  and 
minister  the  services. 


But  I  had  this  sense  of  un- 
worthiness,  and  I  crawled 
under  the  pews  and  tried  to 
get  away. 


Finally  I  carried  my  Bible 
to  the  altar  and  then  tried 
to  preach. 


The  only  words  I  mumbled 
were  peace — peace.  I  felt 
I  was  communicating  be- 
yond words. 


Most  churchmen  are  duly 
skeptical  about  equating  an 
afternoon  on  LSD  with  the 
intuitions  of  a  St.  John  of 
the  Cross  or  a  Martin 
Luther. 


R.  C.  Zaehner  of  Oxford,  a 
Roman  Catholic  and  an  ex- 
pert on  Eastern  religions, 
holds  that  the  drug-ingested 
visions  are  simply  one  of 
many  kinds  of  preternatural 
experience,  and  are  qualita- 
tively different  from  the  ec- 
stasies granted  mystics. 


trouble.  After  three  years  only  thirteen  persons- 
slaves,  no-accounts,  and  women— listened  to  him. 

Boehme,  Eckhart,  and  Luther,  and  George  Fox, 
spoke  about  it  and  the  wrath  of  the  establishment 
came  down  on  them.  Even  Moses  had  his  problems. 

When  are  you  ready  to  take  the  message  seri- 
ously enough  to  announce  it? 

This  is  it!  Thou  art  the  man!  I  am  He!  You  are  He! 

Don't  be  deceived  by  the  bureaucratic  church. 
Don't  think  you  can  escape  it.  The  revelation  comes 
to  everyman  in  his  lifetime.  You  can  close  your  eyes 
and  try  to  ignore  it.  But  it  will  come  to  you.  Every 
man  is  the  chosen  man.  Had  you  forgotten? 

But  when  are  you  ready  to  accept  it?  And  how 
will  you  announce  it? 

For  an  American  in  i960  a.d.  there  was  little 
vocational  preparation  for  the  prophetic  role.  There 
was  no  college-major  for  prophecy— least  of  all  in 
the  divinity  schools.  The  steps  to  secular  success 
were  spelled  out  in  every  college  catalogue  but  not 
for  that  only  important  profession— the  discovery  of 
your  divinity. 

There  was  no  listing  in  the  yellow  pages  of  the 
phone  book  for  visionary  messiah. 

The  entire  weight  of  American  education  is  engi- 
neered to  crush  the  religious  impulse.  Other  times 
have  been  easier.  Luther  was  a  brilliant  priest  in  a 
God-obsessed  society.  The  Buddha  had  pursued  a 
grueling  yoga  for  several  years  before  his  flash.  I 
was  unprepared  for  the  message.  It  would  take  me 
six  years  to  accept  the  call. 

I  was  trained  as  a  psychologist.  Psychology  is  a 
particularly  vulgar,  profane  profession.  It  took  Carl 
Jung  a  lifetime  to  kick  the  psychology  habit  and 
locate  his  center  within.  T.  G.  Fechner,  the  founder 
of  scientific  psychology,  lay  tormented  on  a  bed, 
blind,  incoherent,  for  more  than  a  year  before  he 
tore  off  the  blindfold  and  spoke  the  word.  All  is 
consciousness  and  consciousness  is  one. 

I  did  not  wander  barefoot  forth  from  Mexico 
preaching  the  word.  I  flew  back  to  Harvard  Univer- 
sity and  started  a  research  project.  The  strategy 
was  to  provide  religious  experiences  and  then  scien- 
tifically measure  the  overt  benefit. 

Make  them  feel  right  and  they'll  do  right. 


Spring  1962  00    287 


Make  them  feel  good  and  they'll  do  good. 

I  didn't  mention  the  religious  revelation  part.  Just 
the  public  good,  the  behavior  change  that  would 
result. 

The  dull  would  become  creative.  The  neurotic 
would  become  whole.  The  criminal  would  reform 
his  evil  ways.  Through  questionnaire  and  objective 
personality  tests  and  statistical  analysis  we  would 
prove  "scientifically"  that  God  exists  in  man  and 
that  this  power  miracles  doth  perform. 

Of  course  everyone  intuitively  saw  through  the 
scheme  and  resisted  it— everyone,  that  is,  who 
didn't  turn-on.  The  self-appointed  scientists  and  the 
academics  were  skeptical  and  irritated.  They 
sensed  what  I  was  up  to  and  knew  that  my  cha- 
risma and  enthusiasm  could  make  it  work. 

The  psychedelic  sages  also  murmured  against  the 
research  plan.  It  was  too  public,  too  superficial,  too 
easy. 

The  psychedelic  underground.  The  handful  of 
Americans  who  knew  where  it  was  at— most  of 
them  long-time  students  of  oriental  philosophy  and 
mystic  experiences. 

The  first  friend  to  warn  me  to  keep  the  discovery 
private  was  Frank  Barron.  He  was  shocked  at  my 
organizing  a  large  project  of  graduate  students.  This 
sort  of  research  is  internal.  Take  it  yourself  and 
read  Blake.  Frank  had  taken  the  mushrooms  two 
years  before  and  it  plunged  him  into  twelve  months 
of  contemplation,  wild  poetry,  and  dedicated  study 
of  mystical  philosophy. 

The  politics,  the  administration,  the  organization 
of  a  large  research  project  made  no  sense  to  him. 
Frank  Barron  is  a  gentleman  scholar  of  the  old 
school— a  cross  between  William  James  and  Dylan 
Thomas.  Bureaucracy,  committee  meetings  alien- 
ated his  Celtic  mystic  intuitions.  Experimentation 
on  the  sacred  mushroom  and  the  mystic  experience 
made  no  more  sense  to  Frank  than  psychological 
studies  of  the  effects  of  the  Catholic  sacraments. 
What  are  the  mental-health  implications  of  bap- 
tism? Let  us  request  a  federal  foundation  grant  to 
administer  personality  tests  before  and  after  Holy 
Communion.  What  are  the  psychiatric  diagnostic 
characteristics  of  the  visionary  prophet?  Let  us 


Presbyterian  Theodore  Gill, 
President  of  San  Francisco 
Theological  Seminary,  won- 
ders whether  the  drug  ex- 
perience might  be  a  rival 
rather  than  a  supplement  to 
what  conventional  religion 
offers. 


Says  he:  The  drugs  make 
an  end  run  around  Christ 
and  go  straight  to  the  Holy 
Spirit. 


Clerics  also  charge  that 
LSD  zealots  have  become  a 
clique  of  modern  gnostics 
concerned  only  with  fur- 
thering their  private  search 
for  what  they  call  inner  free- 
dom. 


Others  feel  that  the  church 
should  not  quickly  dismiss 
anything  that  has  the  power 
to  deepen  faith. 


Dr.  W.  T.  Stace,  of  Prince- 
ton, one  of  the  nation's 
foremost  students  of  mysti- 
cism, believes  that  LSD  can 
change  lives  for  the  better. 


The  fact  that  the  experience 
was  induced  by  drugs  has 
no  bearing  on  its  validity, 
he  says. 


288  00    When  Will  You  Be  Ready? 


In  an  article  on  the  drugs 
written  with  Leary  for  the 
journal  Religious  Education, 
Dr.  Walter  Houston  Clark  of 
Andover  Newton  Theologi- 
cal School  argued  that  the 
structure  of  the  drugs  is 
similar  to  that  of  a  family 
of  chemicals  in  the  body 
known  as  indoles. 


It  may  be,  he  suggested, 
that  a  naturally  occurring 
excess  of  the  indoles  might 
predispose  some  people  to 
certain  kinds  of  mystical  ex- 
perience. 


Says  Paul  Lee,  an  instructor 
at  M.I.T.  who  took  LSD 
while  a  student  at  Harvard 
Divinity  School: 

The  pity  is  that  our  every- 
day religious  experience 
has  become  so  jaded,  so 
rationalized  that  to  become 
aware  of  the  mystery,  won- 
derment, and  confusion  of 
life  we  must  resort  to  the 
drugs. 


Nonetheless,  many  of  us 
are  profoundly  grateful  for 
the  vistas  opened  up  by  the 
drug  experience. 


It  remains  to  be  seen 
whether  this  experience  is 
to  be  interpreted  in  reli- 
gious language. 

00 


make  quantitative  measures  and  statistical  analyses 
of  the  Holy  Spirit.  Oh,  really?  Are  you  kidding? 

Listen,  Frank,  let's  come  on  as  psychologists  and 
develop  a  research  project  that  aims  at  producing 
the  ecstatic  moment.  Develop  a  science  of  ecstatics. 
Train  graduate  students  to  illuminate  themselves 
and  others.  We  have  statisticians  who  systematize 
the  static— how  about  ecstatisticians  who  systema- 
tize the  ecstatic? 

No,  you  cant  do  it  with  graduate  students.  They 
are  temperamentally  and  professionally  trained  to 
look  outside,  at  behavior.  You'll  find  your  native 
mystics  among  artists,  poets,  eccentrics.  Don't  mix 
the  professional  with  the  spiritual.  And  don't  talk 
about  the  mushrooms  so  much. 

But  it  was  impossible  not  to  talk  about  the  ex- 
perience. I  was  peripherally  involved  in  Cambridge 
social  life.  Cocktails.  Dinners.  Conversations. 

Sitting  on  a  sofa  with  a  dry  martini  trying  to 
explain  what  it  is  like  to  go  out  of  your  mind  and 
talk  to  God.  Professors'  wives  leaning  forward,  wet 
lips,  eyes  glistening,  the  scent  of  perfume  and 
alcohol  breath.  Fascination.  Disbelief.  Fear. 

Gerald  Heard,  bearded  wise  old  philosopher, 
knew  what  was  going  to  happen.  He  had  studied 
the  sociology  of  ecstasy  for  forty  years  and  recog- 
nized the  ancient  sacramental  meaning  of  LSD. 

He  came  to  visit  us  at  Harvard.  We  asked  his 
advice  in  the  form  of  specific,  practical  questions 
and  he  always  replied  in  parables.  The  Eleusinian 
mysteries.  Tantric  cults.  Tibetan  secrets.  The 
Masonic  Brotherhood.  The  Illuminati.  Medieval 
sects.  The  oral  tradition.  The  secret  teachings  al- 
ways passed  from  guru  to  disciple.  He  never  gave 
an  explicit  answer  but  the  meaning  was  clear.  He 
who  speaks  does  not  know;  he  who  knows  speaks 
privately  or  not  at  all.  Go  underground. 

Alan  Watts  came  to  visit.  Wise.  Detached. 
Funny.  Jolly.  Bubbling.  Eloquent.  Experienced.  He 
was  shy  of  groups  and  organizations.  Don't  upset 
the  establishment.  Blavatsky's  Secret.  The  English 
occultists.  Gurdjieff  and  Ouspensky— The  Fourth 
Way  of  the  sly  man.  He  does  not  profess  a  public 
yoga.  He  takes  his  "little  pill"  quietly  and  goes  all 
the  way. 


Spring  1962  00    289 


Alan  (a  former  Anglican  priest)  conducted  our 
first  LSD  session.  On  Easter  Sunday.  A  High 
Church  ceremony.  Goblets.  Homemade  bread  and 
good  French  wine.  Parables  and  Zen  jokes.  Susan, 
my  twelve-year-old,  and  Jack,  age  ten,  performed  as 
acolytes.  The  sun  shone  through  the  clouds  at  noon 
and  Madison  Presnell  and  Lisa,  his  beautiful  flower 
wife,  and  their  twins  arrived  from  church  radiant  in 
Easter  clothes. 

Lisa  played  the  grand  piano,  and  Madison,  with 
his  African  seed  wisdom,  played  the  grand  jester  and 
floated  up  to  us  on  contact-high  and  spun  out 
psychedelic  stories. 

At  the  communion  supper  Alan  laughed.  I  see 
everything,  everything  in  its  cosmic  dimension. 
Every  phrase.  Every  action.  How  divinely  funny. 

Aldous  Huxley  sat  with  us  in  our  early  planning 
sessions  and  turned-on  with  us  but  remained  con- 
vinced that  religion  was  the  inevitable  institutional 
channel  for  the  psychedelics.  He  called  LSD  a 
gratuitous  grace.  At  his  suggestion  I  initiated  dis- 
cussions with  some  Unitarian  ministers.  They  were, 
as  always,  cultured,  tolerant,  open-minded,  but 
hopelessly  intellectual. 

One  day  in  December  i960  I  received  a  note 
from  a  Professor  Huston  Smith,  philosopher  at 
M.I.T.  We  lunched  at  the  Faculty  Club.  It  seemed 
that  during  a  seminar  on  religious  experience  at 
M.I.T.,  Professor  Smith  had  suggested  that  West- 
erners could  never  hope  to  attain  to  the  mystic 
experience.  Aldous  had  passed  over  a  note  to 
Huston  Smith  with  my  telephone  number. 

Professor  Smith  had  an  ideal  background  for  a 
psychedelic  trip.  His  parents  were  missionaries  and 
he  spent  seventeen  years  in  China.  His  professional 
game  was  comparative  religion.  He  had  sought  the 
visionary  experience  in  monasteries  in  Burma  and 
Japan. 

He  had  been  waiting  and  working  for  a  long  time 
for  the  direct  confrontation. 

And  so  it  was  arranged  that  on  New  Year's  Day, 
1961,  Huston  and  his  good  wife  Eleanor  would 
come  to  my  house  to  turn-on. 

They  arrived  late.  And  Huston  was  nervous. 

There  was  no  ritual  because  I  was  too  inexpe- 


From  "The  Religious  Ex- 
perience, Its  Production  and 
Interpretation"  by  Timothy 
Leary,  in  the  Psychedelic 
Review: 

We  have  arranged  tran- 
scendental experiences  for 
over  four  thousand  persons 
from  all  walks  of  life,  in- 
cluding two  hundred  full- 
time  religious  professionals, 
about  half  of  whom  belong 
to  Eastern  religions  and 
about  half  of  whom  profess 
the  Christian  or  Jewish 
faith. 


In  our  research  files  and  in 
certain  denominational  of- 
fices there  is  building  up  a 
large  and  quite  remarkable 
collection  of  reports  which 
will  be  published  when  the 
political  atmosphere  be- 
comes more  tolerant. 


At  this  point  it  is  conserva- 
tive to  state  that  over  sev- 
enty-five percent  of  these 
subjects  report  intense 
mystico-religious  reactions, 
and  considerably  more  than 
half  claim  that  they  have 
had  the  deepest  spiritual 
experience  of  their  life. 


We  have  five  scientific 
studies  by  qualified  in- 
vestigators— the  four  natu- 
ralistic studies  of  Leary  et 
al.,  Savage  et  al.,  Ditman 
ef  al.  and  Janiger-McGloth- 
lin, 

and  the  triple-blind  study 
in  the  Harvard  dissertation 
mentioned  earlier — yielding 
data  which  indicate  that 
(1)  If  the  setting  is  sup- 
portive but  not  spiritual,  be- 
tween 40  and  75  percent  of 
psychedelic  subjects  will 
report  intense  and  life- 
changing  religious  experi- 
ences; .  .  . 


290  00    When  Will  You        Ready? 


and  that,  (2)  If  the  set  and 
setting  are  supportive  and 
spiritual,  then  around  90 
percent  of  the  experiences 
will  be  revelatory  and  mys- 
tico-religious. 


It  is  hard  to  see  how  these 
results  can  be  disregarded 
by  those  who  are  con- 
cerned with  spiritual  growth 
and  religious  development. 


These  data  are  even  more 
interesting  because  the  ex- 
periments took  place  dur- 
ing an  historical  era  when 
mysticism,  individual  reli- 
gious ecstasy  (as  opposed 
to  religious  behavior),  was 
highly  suspect,  .  .  . 


And  when  the  classic,  di- 
rect non-verbal  means  of 
revelation  and  conscious- 
ness-expansion such  as 
meditation,  yoga,  fasting, 
monastic  withdrawal  and 
sacramental  foods  and 
drugs  were  surrounded  by 
an  aura  of  fear,  clandestine 
secrecy  .  .  . 


Active  social  sanction,  and 
even  imprisonment. 


The  religious  experience. 
You  are  undoubtedly  won- 
dering about  the  meaning 
of  this  phrase  which  has 
been  used  so  freely  in  the 
preceding  paragraphs.  May 
I  offer  a  definition? 


rienced  to  understand  the  importance  of  ritual  and 
too  ignorant  to  suggest  that  Huston  and  Eleanor 
provide  their  own  and  too  aware  of  the  trap  of  the 
mind  to  impose  my  structure  on  the  experience. 

After  taking  the  sacrament  Huston  lay  for  six 
hours  in  a  comatose  terror.  Then  lay  for  four  hours 
in  silent  dazed  contemplation.  I  had  been  busy 
during  the  day  offering  irrelevant  aid,  tea  (not 
drunk),  fruit  (not  eaten),  supportive  remarks  (un- 
answered ) . 

As  I  drove  them  home  in  heavy  silence  I  felt  the 
session  was  a  failure— half  blaming  my  inexpe- 
rience, half  blaming  the  subjects  for  being  unpre- 
pared. 

The  next  day  Huston  phoned  with  the  most 
erthusiastic,  ecstatic,  grateful  cordiality.  The  ses- 
sion was  more  than  he  expected.  The  sacrament 
had  unlocked  the  door. 

In  *he  subsequent  months  Huston  ran  psilocybin 
sessions  for  undergraduate  and  graduate  students 
at  M.I.T.  Laboratory  exercises  for  his  lectures  on 
the  mystic  experience.  Those  were  the  casual  days 
before  the  politicians  and  the  dark  priesthood  of 
psychiatry  had  made  a  scandal  out  of  LSD. 

After  the  sessions  some  of  his  students  roared 
over  to  Harvard  to  dedicate  their  lives  to  the  psy- 
chedelic cause,  but  we  had  no  way  of  using  these 
unleashed  spiritual  energies— no  turn-on,  tune-in, 
drop-out  program.  We  had  our  hands  full  with 
converted  Harvard  graduate  students.  I  wonder 
what  ever  happened  to  those  eager  youngsters. 

During  the  summer  and  fall  of  1961  more  and 
more  interest  in  psychedelics  was  developing,  par- 
ticularly among  the  religious. 

Dr.  Walter  Houston  Clark,  Dean  of  the  Hartford 
Seminary,  was  a  visiting  scholar  at  Harvard  and 
kept  coming  around  to  talk  about  turning-on.  He 
was  a  handsome,  distinguished  graying  figure— of 
somewhat  awesome  respectability.  He  neither 
drank  nor  smoked,  and  talked  about  William 
James.  I  felt  he  was  really  too  academic  and  con- 
servative to  flip-out  in  the  divine  dance.  I  had  a 
protective  feeling  about  him.  He  couldn't  really 
know  what  was  involved. 

Then  there  was  Walter  Pahnke— a  young  country- 


Spring  1962  00    291 


bumpkin,  fresh-faced,  gee-whiz  enthusiast.  He  had 
a  ministerial  degree  ( Midwest  Lutheran,  I  believe ) 
and  a  medical  license  and  was  an  advanced  gradu- 
ate student  in  the  Ph.D.  program  of  the  Harvard 
Divinity  School. 

Walter  wanted  to  do  a  thesis  dissertation  re- 
search on  the  psychedelic  experience.  Yes  sir.  A 
medically  supervised,  double-blind,  pre-  and  post- 
tested,  controlled,  scientifically  up-to-date  kosher 
experiment  on  the  production  of  the  objectively 
defined,  bona-fide  mystic  experience  as  described 
by  Christian  visionaries  and  to  be  brought  about  by 
our  ministrations. 

Walter  Pahnke  was  so  serious  and  so  naive,  I 
laughed  out  loud.  How  many  subjects,  Walter? 

Well,  twenty  in  the  control  group  and  twenty  in 
the  experiment.  And  they'll  all  take  the  drug  in  a 
church  with  organ  music  and  a  sermon  and  the 
whole  Protestant  ritual  going.  I've  read  all  you've 
written  about  the  importance  of  set-and-setting  and 
it  sounds  right  to  me. 

Walter  Pahnke  spoke  with  a  boy-scort  sincerity. 

I  gulped.  You  mean  you  are  suggesting  we  turn- 
on  twenty  people  at  the  same  time  in  the  same 
public  place. 

Yes-sirree.  Wouldn't  be  scientific  to  do  it  at  dif- 
ferent times.  Besides  I  want  to  do  it  on  Good 
Friday— in  the  Boston  University  Chapel.  I  know 
Dean  Howard  Thurmond  and  he's  interested  in  the 
mystic  experience  and  he'll  let  us  use  the  chapel. 

I  really  had  to  laugh  at  this  caricature  of  the 
experimental  design  applied  to  that  most  sacred 
experience.  If  he  had  proposed  giving  aphrodisiacs 
to  twenty  virgins  to  produce  a  mass  orgasm,  it 
wouldn't  have  sounded  further  out. 

My  dear  Walter,  I'm  speechless!  That  is  the  most 
reckless  wild  suggestion  I've  ever  heard  in  my  life. 
You  don't  understand  what  you  are  dealing  with.  A 
psychedelic  experience  flips  you  out  of  your  mind. 
It's  intimate.  It's  private.  You  laugh.  You  moan  in 
cosmic  terror.  You  roll  on  the  floor  wrestling  with 
God  and  the  devil.  In  particular,  the  first  session 
must  be  in  a  protected,  quiet,  secure  surrounding. 

Walter  Pahnke  was  stubborn.  It'll  be  secure,  all 
right.  I've  got  a  medical  degree  and  I'll  have  tran- 


The  religious  experience  is 
the  ecstatic,  incontrovertibly 
certain,  subjective  discov- 
ery of  answers  to  seven 
basic  spiritual  questions. 


What  are  these  seven  basic 
spiritual  questions?  There 
is  the  ultimate-power  ques- 
tion, the  life  question,  the 
human-destiny  question,  and 
the  ego  question. 


1.  The  ultimate-power  ques- 
tion: What  is  the  ultimate 
power  or  basic  energy 
which  moves  the  universe, 
creates  life? 


2.  The  life  question:  What 
is  life,  ,sere  did  it  start, 
where  is  it  going? 


3.  The  human-destiny  ques- 
tion. What  is  man,  whence 
did  he  come,  and  where  is 
he  going? 


4.  The  knowledge  question. 
How  do  we  know? 


5.  The  ego  question  (spir- 
itual and  not  secular,  psy- 
chological, or  social):  What 
am  I?  What  is  my  place  in 
the  plan? 


292  00    When  Will  You  Be  Ready? 


6.  The  emotional  question. 
What  should  we  feel? 


7.  The  ultimate-escape 
question.  How  can  we  end 
it? 


Now  one  important  fact 
about  these  questions  is 
that  they  are  continually 
being  answered  and  re- 
answered,  not  only  by  all 
the  religions  of  the  world 
but  also  by  the  data  of  the 
natural  sciences. 


Reread  these  questions 
from  the  standpoint  of  the 
goals  of  (1)  astronomy- 
physics,  (2)  biochemistry, 
(3)  genetics  and  physi- 
ology, (4)  neurology,  (5) 
psychology,  (6)  psychia- 
try, (7)  anesthesiology. 


But  if  non-secular,  "pure" 
science  and  religion  ad- 
dress themselves  to  the 
same  basic  questions,  what 
is  the  distinction  between 
the  two  disciplines? 


Science  is  the  systematic 
attempt  to  record  and  mea- 
sure the  energy  process  and 
the  sequence  of  energy 
transformation  we  call  life. 


The  goal  is  to  answer  the 
basic  questions  in  terms  of 
objective,  observed,  public 
data. 


quilizers  to  inject— and  I'll  do  psychiatric  inter- 
views to  screen  out  pre-psychotics. 

No,  Walter,  you  don't  get  the  point.  What  you 
are  proposing  may  be  psychiatrically  safe  but  it's 
indecent.  You've  never  had  a  session,  have  you? 

Nope. 

Well,  Walter,  I  like  your  idea.  I'd  love  to  help 
you  do  a  systematic  study  of  the  mystic  experience, 
but  you  must  know  what  is  involved.  You  must 
have  several  sessions  yourself  before  you  begin  to 
think  about  a  research  study. 

Nope.  He  couldn't  do  that.  He  realized  that  there 
might  be  all  sorts  of  opposition  to  his  study— from 
Harvard,  from  the  Divinity  School,  from  the  medi- 
cal people.  Gosh,  he  knew  how  hidebound  people 
were.  Therefore  he  must  preserve  his  psychedelic 
virginity.  He  didn't  want  to  be  accused  of  being 
biased  and  too  positive.  He  had  to  be  able  to  say 
that  he  had  never  taken  the  drug  until  after  his 
thesis  was  accepted. 

The  more  time  I  spent  with  the  indefatigable 
Walter  Pahnke,  the  more  impressed  I  became. 
Behind  his  cornball  facade  there  was  an  inner 
dedication,  an  unruffled  optimism,  a  deep  belief  in 
the  religious  experience  and  the  power  of  psyche- 
delics  to  produce  it. 

An  informal  religious  seminar  slowly  emerged. 
We  began  meeting  on  Sunday  nights  at  Huston 
Smith's  house:  Walter  Clark  and  Walter  Pahnke 
and  dignified  professors  from  the  Divinity  School 
and  visiting  preachers  and  divines  and  a  group  of 
graduate  students  from  the  Divinity  School. 

I  would  preach  and  answer  questions.  Huston 
and  Walter  Clark  and  Walter  Pahnke  would  com- 
ment and  encourage.  Gradually  an  experiment  de- 
veloped. We  would  run  a  session  for  several  divin- 
ity students.  This  was  a  trial  run  for  Walter  Pahnke 
—a  preparation  for  his  big  experiment. 

The  session  was  scheduled  for  a  Saturday  morn- 
ing in  March,  1962.  We  met  in  two  groups,  one  at 
my  house  and  one  at  Huston's  house.  We  had  built 
up  a  staff  of  session  guides— Harvard  graduate 
students  and  young  professors.  It  went  well.  Walter 
Clark  finally  had  his  mystic  experience,  which  he 
described  in  a  moving  report. 


294  00    When  Will  You  Be  Ready? 


Religion  is  the  systematic 
attempt  to  provide  answers 
to  the  same  questions  sub- 
jectively, in  terms  of  direct, 
incontrovertible  private  ex- 
perience. 


At  this  point  I  should  like  to 
present  my  central  thesis. 
I  am  going  to  advance  the 
hypothesis  that  those  as- 
pects of  the  psychedelic 
experience  which  subjects 
report  to  be  ineffable  and 
ecstatically  religious  involve 
a  direct  .  .  . 

awareness  of  the  processes 
which  physicists  and  bio- 
chemists and  neurologists 
measure. 


(1 )  The  ultimate-power  ques- 
tion. A.  The  scientific  an- 
swers to  this  question 
change  constantly — New- 
tonian laws,  quantum  inde- 
terminacy, atomic  structure, 
nuclear  structure. 


Today  the  basic  energy  is 
located  within  the  nucleus. 


Inside  the  atom,  a  trans- 
parent sphere  of  emptiness 
thinly  populated  with  elec- 
trons, the  substance  of  the 
atom  has  shrunk  to  a  core 
of   unbelievable   smallness: 


Enlarged  one  thousand  mil- 
lion times,  an  atom  would 
be  about  the  size  of  a  foot- 
ball, but  its  nucleus  would 
still  be  hardly  visible — a 
mere  speck  of  dust  at  the 
center. 


The  psychedelic  experience  posed  problems  for 
some  of  the  divinity  students. 

Each  one  of  these  voyagers  had  a  vision  as 
dramatic  as  Moses  or  Mohammed.  One  college 
chaplain  found  himself  in  a  bottomless  well  of  cell 
and  tissue  and  realized  he  was  dying  (i.e.  mortal), 
and  looked  up  for  the  light  but  doubted,  and 
reached  for  faith  and  prayer  and  couldn't  find  it, 
and  despaired  and  fell  back  on  his  mind  for 
explanations  and  control,  and  grew  sulky  and  de- 
manding and  could  not  believe.  He  explained  the 
experience  afterwards  in  psychiatric  terms  and  soon 
after  left  the  ministry  for  a  career  in  the  social 
sciences. 

It  was  strong  Old  Testament  stuff,  believe  me. 

Another  minister  found  himself  dying  and  cried 
out  in  great  fear,  and  we  told  him,  Pray,  brother, 
and  he  prayed  and  was  reborn  in  radiance. 

And  another  rolled  on  the  floor,  discovering  that 
sex  was  the  red-flame  of  life,  copulating  the  carpet, 
and  oned  out,  Is  God  nothing  but  sex?  and  we 
reminued  him  of  his  prayer  "Thy  will  be  done, 
Lord,  not  my  will  but  thine,"  and  he  prayed  and 
wept  for  joy. 

And  another  minister  walked  tensely  into  the 
garden  and  when  I  approached  him  smiling,  he 
said,  If  you  mention  the  word  guilt  to  me  Til  punch 
you  in  the  nose.  And  he  cried  out  in  despair,  Who 
can  help  me?  I  said,  Pray  to  your  God,  and  he  said, 
The  hell  with  God,  I  want  my  wife,  and  I  said, 
Your  wife  is  God,  and  he  said,  Right!  My  wife  is 
God!  Get  me  home.  Toward  the  end  of  the  session 
we  got  a  driver  to  take  him  one  hundred  miles  back 
to  his  wife,  and  he  had  two  telepathic  experiences 
that  left  him  awed  and  reverent  and  very  much  in 
love  with  his  wife. 

And  the  minister  who  fell  on  his  knees,  ordered 
us  all  to  do  likewise,  and  looked  up  at  me  with 
righteous  tears  and  said,  Timothy  Leary,  put  aside 
your  vanity  and  testify  to  the  Blood  of  the  Lamb, 
and  his  minister  friend,  also  high,  said,  Yes.  Amen. 
Look  at  his  eyes,  the  eyes  of  Christ,  and  I  looked 
down  at  the  wells  of  suffering  and  groaned  that 
laughing  Jesus  had  been  made  martyr  by  these 
Christians.  And  the  friend  said,  Ho.  Ho.  The  great 


Spring  1962  00    295 


Leary,  master  of  games,  has  met  his  match  in  the 
eyes  of  Jesus.  Look  at  these  eyes,  they  see  through 
even  your  game,  Dr.  Leary. 

And  I  wouldn't  kneel.  I  said,  Let  us  pray  to- 
gether, but  the  suffering  eyes  flashed  with  right- 
eousness and  I  felt  the  arms  go  around  my  knees. 
By  God,  I  was  tackled  by  suffering  Jesus-eyes 
burning  me  with  reproach.  And  the  two  Christians 
on  their  knees  looked  up  at  me  relentless,  and 
linebacker  Jesus-eyes  would  not  let  me  go. 

I  was  amused  and  irritated  because  I  saw  the 
two  thousand  years  of  Christian  moral-one-upman- 
ship and  missionary  coercion  and  holy  sado-maso- 
chism. If  I  moved  I'd  be  brought  down  in  a  tackle, 
unless  I  moved  violently,  in  which  case  I'd  hurt  the 
suffering  Jesus-eyes. 

I  won't  let  you  go,  Brother  Leary,  until  you  fall 
on  your  knees  for  Jesus— and  you  will  do  it  if  I 
have  to  hold  you  for  days. 

Jesus-eyes  wouldn't  let  go  and  wouldn't  stop 
talking  and  wailing  about  Blood  of  the  Lamb, 
repent,  so  I  said,  I'll  stay  here  praying  silently  my 
Buddha  prayer  as  long  as  you  insist  on  holding  me 
slave  to  you.  Onward  Christian  soldiers,  but  for 
Christ's  sake  shut  up  and  let  us  meditate  and 
worship  in  holy  silence.  And  his  friend  said,  Yes, 
let's  meditate  silently  with  Brother  Tim,  but  Jesus- 
eyes  couldn't  keep  still  and  kept  screaming,  He 
died  for  our  sins,  and  I  fought  down  my  desire  to 
straight-arm  the  linebacker  and  run  for  the  goal 
and  I  relaxed  and  after  five  minutes  Jesus-eyes  let 
go  his  tackle  for  a  split  second  and  I  was  off  and 
away  to  the  kitchen  where  I  opened  the  refrigerator 
and  pulled  out  a  beer  and  was  sitting  with  my  feet 
on  the  kitchen  table  when  the  missionaries  roared 
in  to  save  my  soul  and  when  the  preaching  con- 
tinued I  opened  the  window  and  the  soft  spring  air 
billowed  the  curtain  and  I  shouted,  See  that  soft 
breeze?  That's  the  breath  of  God,  for  me.  And  hear 
those  birds?  ...  we  all  listened.  Well  that's  the 
sermon  I  tune-in  to.  It's  all  God,  beloved  Jesus- 
eyes,  and  the  bubbles  on  this  beer,  see  them, 
they're  part  of  the  Divine  Scheme  too.  I  toast  you 
and  God.  And  with  that  we  all  smiled  and  the 
session  went  on. 


Yet  that  nucleus  radiates  a 
powerful  electric  field  which 
holds  and  controls  the  elec- 
trons around  it. 


Incredible  power  and  com- 
plexity operating  at  speeds 
and  spatial  dimensions 
which  our  conceptual  minds 
cannot  register. 


Infinitely  small,  yet  pulsating 
outward  through  enormous 
networks  of  electrical  forces 
— atom,  molecule,  cell, 
planet,  star:  All  forms  danc- 
ing to  the  nuclear  tune. 


The  cosmic  design  is  this 
network  of  energy  whirling 
through  space-time. 


More  than  fifteen  thousand 
million  years  ago  the  oldest 
stars  (oldest,  that  is,  that 
we  now  know  about)  began 
to  form. 


Whirling  disks  of  gas  mole- 
cules— driven  of  course  by 
that  tiny,  spinning,  nuclear 
force — condensing  clouds 
— further  condensations — 
the  tangled  web  of  spinning 
magnetic  fields  clustering 
into  stellar  forms.  .  .  . 


And  each  stellar  cluster 
hooked  up  in  magnetic 
dance  with  its  planetary 
cluster  and  with  every  other 
star  in  the  galaxy  and  each 
galaxy  whirling  in  syn- 
chronized relationship  to 
the  other  galaxies. 


296  00    When  Will  You  Be  Ready? 


One  thousand  million  gal- 
axies. From  100  million  to 
100,000  million  stars  in  a 
galaxy — that  is  to  say, 
100,000  million  planetary 
systems  per  galaxy  .  .  . 

.  .  .  and  each  planetary 
system  slowly  wheeling 
through  the  stellar  cycle 
that  allows  for  a  brief  time 
the  possibility  of  life  as  we 
know  it. 


Here  in  the  always  changing 
data  of  nuclear  physics  and 
astronomy  is  the  current 
scientific  answer  to  the  first 
basic  question — material 
enough  indeed  for  an  awe- 
some cosmology. 


B.  Psychedelic  reports  of- 
ten contain  phrases  which 
seem  to  describe  similar 
phenomena,  subjectively  ex- 
perienced. 


Subjects  speak  of  partici- 
pating and  merging  with 
pure  (i.e.,  content-free)  en- 
ergy, white  light:  of  witness- 
ing the  breakdown  of  mac- 
roscopic objects  into  vibra- 
tory patterns,  the  awareness 
that  everything  is  a  dance 
of  particles, 

sensing  the  smallness  and 
fragility  of  our  system,  vi- 
sions of  the  void,  of  world- 
ending  explosions,  of  the 
cyclical  nature  of  creation 
and  dissolution,  etc. 


It  was  during  these  sessions  that  I  first  caught  on 
to  the  power  and  meaning  of  prayer.  That  prayer 
wasn't  a  telegram  sent  in  the  English  language  to 
the  department  of  requisition  and  supply  on  the  top 
floor.  I  realized  that  you  have  to  be  out  of  your 
mind  to  pray.  That  you  can't  rationalize  with  a  five- 
billion-year-old  energy  process.  That  only  psychot- 
ics  and  flipped-out  saints  and  psychedelics  can 
pray.  And  that  prayer  is  the  compass  .  .  .  the  gy- 
roscope .  .  .  the  centering  device  to  give  you  di- 
rection and  courage  and  trust  at  those  moments 
when  you  are  overwhelmed  by  the  power  and 
breadth  of  the  divine  process. 

The  psychedelic  experience  posed  problems  for 
some  of  the  divinity  students.  It  seemed  that  most 
of  them  were  more  interested  in  their  doctorates, 
and  academic  careers.  The  problem  was  that  in 
these  careers  the  revelatory  confrontation  and  the 
voice  of  God  had  not  played  much  of  a  part.  So 
there  were  crises  of  conscience  and  identity— but  it 
was  all  healthy  and  yeasty  and  the  religious 
seminar  continued  Sunday  evenings  and  we  kept 
turning-on  ministers  and  divinity  students  by  day 
and  by  night. 

Meanwhile  I  had  been  through  my  big  LSD 
death-rebirth  under  the  guidance  of  Michael,  and 
the  religious-ontological  nature  of  the  psychedelic 
experience  was  obvious  to  me,  and  any  secular 
discussion  about  psychedelic  drugs— creativity, 
psychiatric  treatment,  etc.— seemed  irrelevant.  I  was 
catching  the  religious  fever. 

An  increasing  number  of  priests  and  ministers 
and  theologians  kept  coming  around.  And  then  in 
the  spring  of  1962  came  the  swing  to  the  East. 

It  started  with  Fred  Swain,  World  War  II  air 
force  major,  who  became  a  Vedanta  Hindu  monk  in 
1948,  and  who  lived  in  an  ashram  near  Boston.  He 
started  hanging  out  at  the  house  and  he  told  us 
about  Hinduism  and  the  psychedelic  pantheon  of 
gods  and  his  guru  and  yoga.  Fred  had  gone  to 
Mexico  the  year  before  and  had  a  far-out  mush- 
room trip  with  Maria  Sabrina  in  the  mountains  of 
Oaxaca. 

I  started  visiting  the  Vedanta  ashram.  It  was  a 
surprise  and  delight  to  discover  this  group  of  holy, 
mature,  sensible  people  who  had  renounced  the 


Spring  1962  00    297 


world  in  pursuit  of  the  visionary  quest.  The  Hindu 
Bibles  read  like  psychedelic  manuals.  The  Hindu 
myths  were  session  reports.  The  ashram  itself  was  a 
turn-on.  A  serene,  rhythmic  life  of  work  and  medi- 
tation all  aimed  at  getting  high. 

The  reports  of  Fred  Swain  and  Alan  Watts  and 
Aldous  Huxley  had  impressed  them  with  the  yogic 
possibilities  of  psychedelic  drugs.  They  were  watch- 
ing me  too,  testing  me  out. 

After  several  visits  I  was  asked,  shyly,  to  guide  a 
session  for  some  of  the  people  in  the  ashram. 

I  came  to  the  ashram  early  one  morning  and 
joined  the  meditating-chanting  service.  Then,  those 
who  were  to  take  the  trip  remained  for  more 
prayers  and  contemplation.  The  LSD  had  been 
placed  in  chalices  on  the  altar.  Incense  and  flowers 
adorned  it.  The  LSD  sacrament  was  mixed  with 
holy  water  from  the  Ganges,  blessed,  and  drunk. 


Now  I  need  not  apologize 
for  the  flimsy  inadequacy  of 
these  words.  We  just  don't 
have  a  better  experiential 
vocabulary. 


If  God  were  to  permit  you  a 
brief  voyage  into  the  divine 
process,  let  you  whirl  for  a 
second  into  the  atomic  nu- 
cleus or  spin  you  out  on  a 
light-year  trip  through  the 
galaxies,  .  .  . 

how  on  earth  would  you  de- 
scribe what  you  saw,  when 
you  got  back,  breathless, 
to  your  office? 


In  human  affairs,  aesthetic  form  comes  into  being 
when  traditions  exist  that,  strong  and  abiding  like 
mountains,  are  made  pleasing  by  a  lucid  beauty.  By 
contemplating  the  forms  existing  in  the  heavens  we 
come  to  understand  time  and  its  changing  demands. 
Through  contemplation  of  the  forms  existing  in 
human  society  it  becomes  possible  to  shape  the 
world.  (IChing  XXII) 


This  metaphor  may  sound 
far-fetched  and  irrelevant  to 
you,  but  just  ask  someone 
who  has  taken  LSD  in  a 
supportive  setting. 


Then  we  moved  from  the  altar  to  the  larger 
shrine-room— we  sat  Indian-style  on  an  oriental 
rug.  Candles.  Incense.  Chanting. 

Then  the  Holy  folk  got  high.  I  could  see  the  LSD 
take  over.  In  spite  of  their  years  of  preparation  they 
were  shocked  by  the  power  and  complexity  of  the 
LSD.  They  knew  exactly  what  was  happening  but 
it  still  scared  them.  I  was  high  too  and  overcome  by 
the  power  of  the  ashram  and  the  shrine  and  the 
ancient  rituals.  We  were  all  caught  in  Hindu  my- 
thologies. I  was  awed  and  dazzled  and  confused. 
What  happens  here?  Now  I'm  Siva,  okay,  but  what 
do  I  do?  Hindu  sessions  have  been  going  on  for  five 
thousand  years.  I'm  a  naive  Westerner.  I  remem- 
bered my  prayer,  When  in  doubt,  be  quiet,  drift, 
trust.  I  sat  erect  in  the  Indian  position— flipped-out, 
ecstatic,  bewildered. 

The  Holy  people  of  the  ashram  were  bowled 


(2)  The  Life  question:  A. 
The  scientific  answer:  Our 
planetary  system  began 
over  five  billion  years  ago 
and  has  around  five  billion 
years  to  go. 


Life  as  we  know  it  dates 
back  about  one  billion 
years.  In  other  words,  the 
earth  spun  for  about  eighty 
percent  of  its  existence 
without  life. 


298  00    When  Will  You  Be  Ready? 


The  crust  slowly  cooled  and 
was  eroded  by  incessant 
water  flow. 


Fertile  mineral  mud  was  de- 
posited .  .  .  now  giving 
.  .  .  for  the  first  time  .  .  . 
the  possibility  of  harboring 
life. 


Thunderbolts  in  the  mud 
produce  amino  acids,  the 
basic  building  blocks  of 
life. 


Then  begins  the  ceaseless 
production  of  protein  mole- 
cules, incalculable  in  num- 
ber, forever  combining  into 
new  forms. 


The  variety  of  proteins  ex- 
ceeds all  the  drops  of  water 
in  all  the  oceans  of  the 
world. 


Then  protoplasm.  Cell. 
Within  the  cell,  incredible 
beauty  and  order.  When  we 
consider  the  teeming  ac- 
tivity of  a  modern  city  it  is 
difficult  to  realize  that  in 
the  cells  of  our  bodies  in- 
finitely more  complicated 
processes  are  at  work.  .  .  . 


Ceaseless  manufacture,  ac- 
quisition of  food,  storage, 
communication,  and  ad- 
ministration. .  .  . 


over.  They  really  saw  the  mythic  nature  of  the 
situation.  They  looked  up  at  me  in  terror  and  awe.  I 
was  radiating  energy.  The  beautiful  nun  Sakti 
gasped  and  crawled  over  and  put  her  head  in  my 
lap.  Oh  Bhagavan,  Lord,  you  have  conquered  me. 
Forgive  my  doubts  and  my  arrogance.  I  surrender 
to  you.  The  others  watched  with  hushed  attention. 
Fred  Swain  crouched,  squatting,  the  monkey-God, 
Hanuman.  We  were  four  figures  from  a  temple 
carving.  We  were  four  timeless  divinities  caught  in 
the  classic  posture  of  union,  celebration,  cosmic 
tension. 

I  leaned  down  and  smiled  and  stroked  Sakti's 
brow.  Rest,  beloved.  We  are  one.  She  sighed,  Oh 
yes,  and  the  others  nodded. 

The  candles  burned  silently.  The  incense  smoke 
rose,  essence  of  Holy  India,  reek  of  Kalighat 
temple,  Calcutta,  holy  scent  of  Ram  Mandir  Ben- 
ares and  Jaganath  Puri  and  Konarak.  I  looked 
around  the  room.  Ramakrishna's  statue  breathed 
and  his  eyes  twinkled  the  message.  Vivekananda's 
brown  face  beamed  and  winked.  Christ  grinned  to 
be  joined  again  with  his  celestial  brothers.  The  rare- 
wood  walls  breathed.  The  sacred  kundalini  serpent 
uncoiled  up  the  bronzed  candelabra  to  the  thou- 
sand-petaled  lotus  blossom.  This  was  the  fulcrum 
moment  of  eternity.  The  exact  second  of  conscious- 
ness, fragile,  omniscient.  God  was  present  and 
spoke  to  us  in  silence. 

I  was  overcome  with  reverence.  And  gratitude. 
To  be  allowed  this  glimpse,  this  participation  in  the 
Holy  company,  in  the  venerable  dance. 

I  was  a  Hindu  from  that  moment  on.  No,  that's 
not  the  way  to  say  it.  I  recognized  that  day  in  the 
temple  that  we  are  all  Hindus  in  our  essence.  We 
are  all  Hindu  Gods  and  Goddesses.  Laughing 
Krishna.  Immutable  Brahma.  Yes  and  Asiatic- 
sensual  Siva.  Stern  Kali  with  bloody  hands.  Undu- 
lant  flowering  Laxmi.  Multi-armed  Vishnu.  Noble 
Rama.  That  day  in  the  temple  I  discovered  my 
Hindu-ness. 

Things  were  different  after  that  session.  There 
was  a  new  dimension.  I  was  less  a  confident  Ameri- 
can and  more  an  unsure  human.  There  was  more 
mystery  and  more  sense  of  being  part  of  an  ancient 


300  00    When  Will  You  Be  Ready? 


All  this  takes  place  in  su- 
perb harmony,  with  the 
cooperation  of  all  the  par- 
ticipants of  a  living  system, 
regulated  down  to  the 
smallest  detail. 


Life  is  the  striving  cycle  of 
repetitious,  reproductive  en- 
ergy transformations.  Mov- 
ing, twisting,  devouring, 
changing,  the  unit  of  life 
is  the  cell. 


And  the  blueprint  is  the 
genetic  code,  the  two  nu- 
cleic acids — the  long,  inter- 
twined, duplicating  chains 
of  DNA  and  the  controlling 
regulation  of  RNA — which 
determine  the  structure  of 
the  living  substance. 


And  where  is  it  going?  Ex- 
actly like  the  old  Hindu 
myths  of  cyclical  rotation, 
the  astro-physicists  tell  us 
that  life  is  a  temporary  se- 
quence which  occurs  at  a 
brief  midpoint  in  the  plane- 
tary cycle. 


processional  profession.  The  slow  invisible  process 
of  becoming  a  guru,  a  holy  man,  had  begun.  It 
would  be  four  years  before  I  could  openly  admit  to 
it.  Accept  my  divinity,  my  divine  election.  This  holy- 
man  thing  is  always  something  you  confess  to, 
rather  than  claim.  When  you  say  it,  you  lose  it,  but 
not  for  long.  It's  a  relentless  growing  process  which, 
like  aging  or  wrinkles,  once  it  has  begun,  cant  be 
stopped.  The  inexorable,  unplanned  for,  trouble- 
some, comically  embarrassing,  implausible  unstop- 
pable tidal  sweep  towards  sainthood.  How  ironic 
and  ludicrous  that  an  American  Irishman  should  be 
forced  into  sainthood!  There  was  the  dim  recogni- 
tion that  I  had  known  it  all  along.  Since  childhood. 
In  the  flush  of  youthful  game  success,  the  nagging, 
peripheral,  elusive  memory  that  I  had  been  through 
this  before;  that  no  game  victory  or  career  achieve- 
ment could  satisfy  because  I  had  won  and  lost  the 
same  games  so  many  times  before. 

Is  it  reincarnation?  Or  just  the  living-out  of  ado- 
lescent fantasies  of  messiahism?  It  makes  no  dif- 
ference how  you  explain  it— it's  as  real  as  rain. 

The  first  intimations  of  the  prophetic  role  came 
after  the  session  in  the  ashram.  The  monks  and 
nuns  treated  me  as  a  guru.  To  them  it  was  obvious. 
I  was  not  a  Harvard  psychologist  with  a  staff  of 
research  assistants.  Come  off  it,  please.  I  was,  like  it 
or  not,  playing  out  the  ancient  role. 

The  evolution  of  organic  forms  is  a  combination 
of  internal  protein  potentiality  and  external  pres- 
sure. Seed  and  sun.  And  so  with  man's  spiritual 
evolution.  Inner  potential  plus  external  social 
pressure. 

When  the  guru  was  away,  members  of  the  ash- 
ram would  visit  me  for  religious  advice.  And  wan- 
dering aspirants  began  to  drift  into  the  house. 
Devotees  looking  for  cosmic  direction,  not  game 
counsel.  Their  dilemmas  are  celestial,  not  practical. 
And  you  don't  offer  solutions— just  reminders  of 
who  we  are  and  where  we  are  and  where  we  came 
from  and  how  it  is  to  unfold.  We  all  know  these 
things.  We  just  need  reminders.  The  person  who 
remembers,  who  reminds,  who  acts  as  an  alarm 
clock,  who  becomes  time-and-weather  announcer 
for  central  broadcasting,  station  RDNA— this  per- 
son is  called  guru.  Prophet. 


Spring  1962  00    301 


The  profession  of  holy  man  is  based,  like  every- 
thing else  human,  upon  the  laws  of  the  nervous 
system  and  the  laws  of  social  interaction.  It  in- 
volves feedback,  set,  expectation,  setting,  social 
pressure,  habit.  If  you  are  turned-on/tuned-in/ 
dropped-out,  then  people  will  begin  treating  you  as 
a  spiritual  teacher.  And  if  people  continue  to  press 
you  with  questions  and  problems  and  emotions 
appropriate  only  to  the  guru-role,  you  begin  to  act 
like  a  holy  man.  You  just  have  to.  But  the  acting 
like  a  holy-man-spiritual-teacher  must  be  based  on, 
must  always  be  in  touch  with  your  holy-inner-ex- 
perimenting. If  the  holy  actions  get  separated  from 
the  holy-orgiastic-ecstasy-revelation-thread  inside, 
then  you  become  a  fraud,  a  play-actor  priest,  a 
pious  do-gooder.  That's  the  occupational  hazard  of 
a  messiah.  You  have  to  keep  turning-on/tuning-in/ 
dropping-out  yourself.  You  have  to  have  a  frighten- 
ing sacrament  that  works  and  continues  to  work. 

The  fire,  whose  light  illuminates  the  mountain  and 
makes  it  pleasing,  does  not  shine  far;  in  the  same 
way,  beautiful  form  suffices  to  brighten  and  to  throw 
light  upon  matters  of  lesser  moment,  but  important 
questions  cannot  be  decided  in  this  way.  They 
require  greater  earnestness.  ( I  Ching  XXII ) 

It's  easy  to  get  caught  up  in  the  guru  game.  And 
you  can  keep  it  going  in  a  routine  fashion  because 
your  disciples  are  only  too  happy  to  cop-out,  to 
settle  for  your  divinity,  not  theirs.  The  guru  has  to 
keep  dropping-out  of  the  guru  role  and  shocking 
followers  out  of  their  piety  and  jarring  them,  and 
he  can  never  stay  virtuously  predictable. 

That's  why  so  many  gurus  get  stale  and  pompous 
and  narcissistic.  They  believe  and  react  to  the 
fantasies  about  their  holiness.  That  was  the  power 
of  Gandhi,  of  Ramakrishna,  of  Gurdjieff.  They 
knew  that  the  guru  has  to  keep  turning-on/tuning- 
in/ dropping-out.  And  that's  the  dilemma  of  Krish- 
namurti.  He  saw  the  falseness  of  his  avatar-God 
role.  It  had  been  laid  on  him,  after  all,  without  his 
choice  as  a  child,  and  he  was  too  intelligent  and  too 
honest  to  go  along  with  it  and  he  shouted,  Stop. 
Come  on!  I'm  not  The  God.  You  all  are  Gods,  if  you 
only  remember.  But  Krishnamurti  had  no  way  of 


Terrestrial  life  began  around 
four  billion  years  A.B.  ("af- 
ter the  beginning"  of  our 
solar  cycle)  and  will  run  for 
another  two  billion  years 
or  so. 


At  that  time  the  solar  fur- 
nace will  burn  so  hot  that 
the  minor  planets  (includ- 
ing earth)  will  boil,  bubble, 
and  burn  out. 


In  other  planetary  systems 
the  time  spans  are  different, 
but  the  cycle  is  probably 
the  same. 


The  psychedelic  correlates 
of  these  biological  concepts 
sound  like  this:  Confronta- 
tion with  and  participation 
in  cellular  flow;  .  .  . 


visions  of  microscopic  pro- 
cesses; strange,  undulating 
multi-colored  tissue  pat- 
terns; being  a  one-celled 
organism  floating  down  ar- 
terial waterways;  being  part 
of  the  fantastic  artistry  of 
internal  factories;  .  .  . 


recoiling  with  fear  at  the 
incessant  push,  struggle, 
drive  of  the  biological  ma- 
chinery, clicking,  clicking, 
endlessly,  endlessly — at  ev- 
ery moment  engulfing  you. 


302  00    When  Will  You  Be  Ready? 


(3)  The  human-destiny  ques- 
tion: A.  The  scientific  an- 
swer: The  flame  of  life  which 
moves  every  living  form,  in- 
cluding the  cell  cluster  you 
call  yourself,  began,  we  are 
told,  as  a  tiny  single-celled 
spark  in  the  lower  pre- 
Cambrian  mud;  then  passed 
over  in  steady  transforma- 
tions to  more  complex 
forms. 


turning-on.  None  of  the  sacraments  worked  for  him 
and  so  he  was  caught  in  the  reluctant  guru  game, 
lecturing  and  writing  the  message  that  there  is  no 
message,  using  his  intellectual  method  to  put  down 
method,  and  teaching  from  a  thousand  middle-class 
podiums  that  there  is  no  teacher  and  there  is  no 
mystery-magic  because  he,  Krishnamurti,  like  a 
Medici  pope  (but  more  honest  than  a  nepotist 
Renaissance  pope  because  he  blew  the  whistle 
beautifully  and  cleanly  on  his  own  religious  bu- 
reaucracy game),  was  forced  into  a  role  he  wasn't 
ready  for— the  avatar  who  had  never  turned-on. 


Well,  that  Spring  of  1962  was  a  rock-and-roll 
religious  revival  season.  My  house  was  swarming 
with  Christian  ministers  and  Hindu  practitioners. 
We  spent  a  lot  of  time  at  the  Vedanta  ashram. 
Conversions  and  rebirths  occurring  on  a  relentless 
weekly  schedule. 

LSD  used  as  a  sacrament  was  working. 


grace  has  success. 
In  small  matters 
It  is  favorable  to  undertake 
something. 

(I  Ching) 


10 


pes 


Your  Faith  Will  Perform  Miracles: 

H 

B 

n 

o 
o 
o 
a 

April  1962  Q 

> 
Guides:     Walter  clark,  *3 

HUSTON  SMITH,  W 

WALTER  PAHNKE  "TJ 


w 

Oracle:   IV  §| 

Youthful  Folly  H 


Keeping  Still,  Mountain 
The  Abysmal,  Water 


A  spring  weZZs  up  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain: 
The  image  of  youth. 

Thus  the  superior  man  fosters  his  character 
By  thoroughness  in  all  that  he  does. 

(IChing) 


TRIP  15 


From  Patrologici  Latins  by 
Johannes    Scotus    Erigena: 

The  flux  of  all  things  is  not 
a  motion  in  time,  because 
all  time  is  comprehended 
within  one  part  of  the  pro- 
cess. It  is  not  a  cycle  which 
repeats  itself,  but  an  eter- 
nal cycle,  and  the  two  as- 
pects of  the  process  are 
simultaneously  eternal.  Na- 
ture is  eternal,  but  not 
static.  It  is  eternally  dyna- 
mic, moving  by  the  dialecti- 
cal process  of  division  and 
return. 


These  ideas,  existing  in  the 
mind  of  God,  contain  the 
substances  of  all  things: 
Man,  for  example,  is  most 
correctly  defined  as  a  cer- 
tain intellectual  notion  eter- 
nally made  in  the  divine 
mind. 

00 


From  The  Confessions  of 
St.  Augustine: 

The  memory  containeth 
also  reasons  and  laws  in- 
numerable of  numbers  and 
dimensions,  none  of  which 
hath  any  bodily  sense  im- 
pressed; seeing  they  have 
neither  colour,  nor  sound, 
nor  taste,  nor  smell,  nor 
touch.  I  have  heard  the 
sound  of  the  words  whereby 
when  discussed  they  are 
denoted:  But  the  sounds 
are  other  than  the  things. 


And  so  was  Walter  Pahnke  working.  He  was 
doggedly  going  ahead  with  plans  for  his  controlled 
experiment.  I  had  gone  along  with  Walter  all  along, 
humoring  him,  knowing  that  it  couldn't  happen. 
But  Walter  Pahnke  was  unstoppable.  A  master 
politician  in  the  art  of  the  feasible. 

First  he  cooled  me  out.  He  agreed  to  change  his 
design.  There  would  be  no  turning-on  of  a  large 
group,  no  marching  around  of  masses  of  people 
stoned  out  of  their  minds.  Walter  agreed  to  divide 
the  sample  into  five  small  groups.  In  each  group 
there  would  be  four  divinity  students— two  of  whom 
would  be  given  psilocybin  ( the  sacred  mushroom  in 
pill  form)  and  the  other  two  a  placebo  (a  non- 
psychedelic  pill).  Each  group  would  be  guided  by 
two  members  of  our  Harvard  project— psychedelic 
veterans— one  of  whom  would  take  psilocybin  and 
one  of  whom  would  get  the  placebo. 

No  one,  not  even  Walter  Pahnke,  would  know 
who  would  get  the  sacrament  and  who  would  draw 
the  inactive  pill. 

Walter  balked  at  the  guides  taking  the  drug.  This 
was  the  main  objection  which  psychiatrists  and  self- 
appointed  researchers  were  leveling  at  our  work. 
How  can  doctors  take  drugs  with  the  subjects?  The 
psychiatrists  and  scientists  who  were  denouncing 
our  work  had  never  taken  a  psychedelic.  To  them 
LSD  and  psilocybin  made  you  drunk  like  booze  or 
crazy  like  mental  hospitals.  In  their  Torquemada 
fantasies  we  were  reeling  around  intoxicated  (or 
worse ) .  How  could  we  be  objective? 

But  I  insisted.  There  can  be  no  doctor-patient 
game  going  when  you  use  psychedelics.  We  are  all 
in  it  together.  Shared  ignorance.  Shared  hopes. 
Shared  risks.  One  guide  (selected  by  lot)  would  be 
straight  and  one  would  be  high.  And  all  ten  guides 
304 


April  1962  00    305 


would  be  seeking  the  same  thing  as  the  subjects— 
a  deep  spiritual  experience  on  Good  Friday. 

Walter  agreed. 

Next,  Walter  went  to  the  administrators  at  the 
three  schools  and  reassured  them.  The  implausible 
breadth  and  scope  of  the  experiment  was  itself  an 
advantage.  The  fact  that  three  colleges  were  in- 
volved allowed  for  administrative  buck-passing. 
After  all,  reasoned  Boston  University,  it's  a  Harvard 
doctoral  dissertation.  After  all,  reasoned  Harvard, 
our  students  are  not  involved  as  subjects.  After  all, 
reasoned  Andover-Newton,  it's  really  a  Harvard- 
Boston  University  project.  Our  students  are  in- 
volved as  individuals. 

And  then  Walter  had  some  powerful  sacred  cows 
going  for  him.  He  was  an  M.D.,  a  minister,  a  Har- 
vard scientist.  But  more  important  were  the  good 
human  energies  he  had  going  for  him.  First  there 
was  his  own  unmistakable  sincerity  and  his  reassur- 
ing, square,  conventional,  earnest  solidity. 

Then  he  had  the  backlog  of  solid  spiritual  power 
that  had  been  a-building  up  over  the  past  year. 
Every  theologian,  minister,  and  administrator  in  the 
Boston  area  had  felt  the  ripple  of  our  religious 
project.  We  had  provided  (in  safety)  deep,  shatter- 
ing, spiritual  conversion  experiences  for  a  good  two 
dozen  members  of  the  academic  establishment.  The 
good  word  had  got  around. 

Then,  and  perhaps  most  important,  Walter  had 
the  full  support  of  at  least  one  impressive,  high- 
status  person  at  each  institution.  Professor  Huston 
Smith  of  M.I.T.— saintly,  benevolent,  articulate, 
sound,  mature— would  be  a  guide  and  take  the  pill 
blindly  on  Good  Friday  and  risk  going  out  of  his 
mind. 

And  Dr.  Walter  Clark  of  Andover-Newton— con- 
vincing, mellow,  lovable— was  ready  to  take  the 
sacrament  with  strangers  and  lend  his  guiding 
wisdom. 

And  at  Harvard,  Walter  Pahnke's  thesis-adviser 
was  behind  the  experiment. 

So  during  the  Lenten  weeks  we  divided  into 
groups,  and  the  two  guides  met  with  the  four 
students  and  got  to  know  each  other  and  shared 


I  have  seen  the  lines  of 
architects,  the  very  finest, 
like  a  spider's  thread;  but 
those  are  still  different,  they 
are  not  the  images  of  those 
lines  which  the  eye  of  flesh 
showed  me:  He  knoweth 
them,  whosoever  without 
any  conception  whatsoever 
of  a  body,  recognises  them 
within  himself. 

00 


From  The  Age  of  Belief  by 
Anne  Fremantle: 

Augustine  concludes  that 
past  and  future  are  all 
measured,  as  is  the  present 
too,  by  memory;  indeed  all 
reality,  including  God  him- 
self, lurks  there,  in  man's 
memory. 

00 


From  The  Confessions  of  St. 
Augustine: 

When  I  enter  there,  I  re- 
quire what  I  will  to  be 
brought  forth,  and  some- 
thing instantly  comes;  oth- 
ers must  be  longer  sought 
after,  which  are  fetched,  as 
it  were,  out  of  some  inner 
receptacle;  others  rush  out 
in  troops,  and  while  one 
thing  is  desired  and  re- 
quired, they  start  forth,  as 
who  should  say,  "Is  it  per- 
chance I?" 


These  things  do  I  within,  in 
that  vast  court  of  my  mem- 
ory. For  there  are  present 
with  me,  heaven,  earth,  sea, 
and  whatever  I  could  think 
on  therein,  besides  what  I 
have  forgotten. 


306  00    Perform  Miracles 


There  also  meet  I  with  my- 
self, and  recall  myself,  and 
when,  where,  and  what  I 
have  done,  and  under  what 
feelings.  There  be  all  which 
I  remember,  either  on  my 
own  experience  or  other's 
credit. 


Out  of  the  same  store  do  I 
myself  with  the  past  con- 
tinually combine  fresh  and 
fresh  likenesses  of  things 
which  I  have  experienced, 
or,  from  what  I  have  experi- 
enced, have  believed:  and 
thence  again  infer  future 
actions,  events,  and  hopes. 


What  then  do  I  love,  when 
I  love  my  God?  By  my  very 
soul   I  will  ascend  to  him. 


Another  power  there  is  .  .  . 
whereby  I  imbue  with  sense 
of  my  flesh,  which  the  Lord 
has  framed  for  me:  Com- 
manding the  eye  .  .  .  that 
through  it  I  should  see,  and 
the  ear  that  through  it  I 
should  hear;  and  to  the 
other  senses  severally,  what 
is  to  each  their  own  pe- 
culiar seats  and  offices. 


I  will  pass  then  beyond  this 
power  of  my  nature  also, 
rising  by  degrees  unto  Him 
who  made  me.  And  I  came 
to  the  fields  and  spacious 
palaces  of  my  memory, 
where  are  the  treasures 
of  innumerable  images, 
brought  into  form  from 
things  of  all  sorts  per- 
ceived by  the  senses. 

00 


concerns  and  aspirations  and  ignorances.  You  see, 
the  groups  had  this  great  thing  in  common.  The 
sharing  of  goal  and  risk.  No  one  knew  who  would 
receive  the  sacrament.  We  were  all  in  it  together. 

So,  much  to  my  amazement,  the  project  came 
down  to  the  final  week  with  high  enthusiasm  and 
competent  preparations.  The  little  band  of  worship- 
ers drew  close  together,  and  the  administrators  in 
the  Roman  centers  of  pharisaic  power  remained 
nervously  silent.  By  God,  and  by  miracle,  it  was  ap- 
parently going  to  happen. 

And  then  on  Wednesday  of  Holy  Week  the 
Sanhedrin-ax  fell.  Walter  Pahnke's  motorcycle 
roared  into  my  driveway  that  evening,  and  Walter 
stood  in  the  kitchen  in  his  leather  jacket,  stripping 
off  his  gloves,  his  face  worried,  telling  me  the  bad 
news.  We  couldn't  get  the  sacrament.  We  had 
agreed  some  time  back  to  allay  bureaucratic  fears 
by  turning  over  our  supply  of  psychedelic  drugs  to 
Dr.  Dana  Farnsworth,  director  of  the  Harvard  Med- 
ical Service.  Farnsworth  was  now  refusing  to  re- 
lease them  for  the  Good  Friday  study. 

Dana  Farnsworth  was  a  genial  extroverted  politi- 
cal doctor  whose  administrative  career  was  un- 
complicated by  wit,  wisdom,  ethical  principle,  or 
scientific  curiosity. 

Step  one  was  to  find  out  who  was  behind  Farns- 
worth. I  phoned  the  chairman  of  the  academic 
committee  who  was  overseeing  our  research 
project.  He  was  at  home,  and  his  voice  and  the 
background  noise  spelled  cocktail  party. 

Fred,  I've  just  found  out  that  Farnsworth  won't 
give  us  the  drugs  for  the  Good  Friday  study. 

The  professor's  voice  lost  the  booze  lilt  and  be- 
came guarded.  Yes,  so  I  hear. 

Well,  Fred,  he  can't  do  that.  The  agreement  was 
that  your  committee  would  approve  the  studies  and 
that  Farnsworth  would  release  the  drugs  when  we 
needed  them.  They  belong  to  us,  not  him,  after 
all.  .  .  . 

Fred  took  off  on  a  bureaucratic  open-field  run. 
The  committee  had  no  jurisdiction  in  this  case.  It 
was  a  Divinity  School  project.  It  was  a  Boston  Uni- 
versity project.  The  exact  administrative  machinery 
for  handling  such  confused  jurisdiction  had  not 


April  1962  00    307 


been  established.  No,  there  couldn't  possibly  be  a 
meeting  until  next  week.  Until  after  Good  Friday. 

Well,  let's  be  specific,  Fred.  Farnsworth  wouldn't 
refuse  to  release  the  drugs  without  checking  with 
the  watchdog  committee.  And  he  would  release 
them  if  you  approved  it.  Right? 

Right. 

And  will  you  tell  them  to  release  the  drugs  for 
the  Good  Friday  experiment  on  the  religious  ex- 
perience? 

No.  We  won't  interfere  one  way  or  the  other, 
Tim.  It's  not  our  problem.  We  can't  say  yes.  We 
don't  want  to  get  blamed  if  the  experiment  blows 
up  in  a  scandal.  Drugs  on  Good  Friday,  really,  old 
man!  And  we  don't  want  to  say  no,  either.  We  can't 
stop  research. 

So  you  are  washing  your  hands  of  the  affair. 

•Exactly.  We  are  washing  our  hands  of  the  matter. 
And  if  we  never  hear  of  it  again  it  will  be  great  with 
me. 

Beautiful,  Fred.  Those  classic  lines  have  never 
been  better  delivered.  But  don't  be  under  any 
illusions.  You  are  going  to  hear  more  about  the 
affair. 

I  hung  up  the  phone  and  looked  at  Walter 
Pahnke.  He  had  been  listening  anxiously. 

For  the  first  time  his  clean-cut  Midwestern  face 
was  gloomy.  This  whole  thing  is  so  right.  I've  done 
everything  according  to  Hoyle— medically,  scien- 
tifically, academically,  spiritually.  We  just  can't  let 
them  stop  it. 

Well,  if  it's  right,  Walter,  they  can't  stop  it. 
You  can  do  it  if  you  really  want  to. 

This  froze  Walter  in  his  tracks.  Do  it  anyway? 
Defy  the  director  of  the  Health  Department?  Defy 
the  Harvard  officials? 

Walter  didn't  have  a  rebellious  bone  in  his  body. 
He  was  an  establishment  man,  a  good  boy,  right 
down  the  line.  The  problem  was,  he  was  one  of 
those  hardheaded,  grass-roots,  orthodox  idealists 
who  really  believed  in  what  was  right.  And  stub- 
born about  his  virtue.  Your  classic,  old-fashioned 
Protestant  type. 

How  can  I  do  it  if  I  want  to? 

Well,  Walter,  we  have  the  chapel  and  the  ap- 


From  The  Religions  of  Man 
by  Huston  Smith: 

The  prophets  of  Israel  and 
Judah  are  one  of  the  most 
amazing  groups  of  individ- 
uals in  all  history. 


In  the  midst  of  the  moral 
desert  in  which  they  found 
themselves,  they  spoke  the 
words  the  world  has  been 
unable  to  forget. 


Some  hear  God  roaring  like 
a  lion,  others  hear  him  in 
the  ghostly  stillness  that 
precedes  the  storm. 


Yet  one  thing  is  common 
to  them  all;  the  conviction 
that  every  man  simply  by 
virtue  of  the  fact  that  he  is 
a  human  being,  a  child  of 
God,  has  rights  that  even 
kings  cannot  erase. 

00 


From  Doors  of  Perception 
by  Aldous  Huxley: 

My  own  belief  is  that  .  .  . 
these  new  mind-changers 
(the  psychedelic  drugs)  will 
tend  in  the  long  run  to 
deepen  the  spiritual  life. . . . 


And  this  revival  of  religion 
will  be  at  the  same  time  a 
revolution.  .  .  . 


308  00    Perform  Miracles 


Religion  will  be  transformed 
into  an  activity  concerned 
mainly  with  experience  and 
intuition — 


An  everyday  mysticism  un- 
derlying and  giving  signifi- 
cance to  everyday  rational- 
ity, everyday  tasks  and 
duties,  everyday  human  re- 
lationships. 

00 


Wilson  van  Dusen: 

There  is  a  central  human 
experience  which  alters  all 
other  experiences.  It  has 
been  called  Satori  in  Japa- 
nese Zen,  Moksha  in  Hin- 
duism, religious  enlighten- 
ment or  cosmic  conscious- 
ness in  the  west.  .  .  . 


(It)  is  not  just  an  experi- 
ence among  others,  but 
rather  the  very  heart  of 
human  experience.  It  is  the 
center  that  gives  under- 
standing to  the  whole.  .  .  . 


Once  found,  life  is  altered 
because  the  very  root  of 
human  identity  has  been 
deepened.  .  .  . 


The  drug  LSD  appears  to 
facilitate  the  discovery  of 
this  apparently  ancient  and 
universal  experience. 

00 


proval  of  Dean  Thurmond.  And  we  have  the 
students  and  the  approval  of  the  Seminary.  And  if 
your  thesis  adviser  will  back  you,  and  he's  got  to 
because  it's  a  sound  scientific  plan,  then  the  only 
problem  is  to  get  the  drugs.  And  I'll  get  you  the 
drugs. 

How?  I  thought  you  had  given  all  the  sacrament 
to  Farnsworth. 

I  did  give  him  all  I  had,  but  there's  a  psychiatrist 
in  Worcester  to  whom  I  gave  a  supply  last  month 
and  I  know  he  hasn't  used  them  and  he'll  give  them 
back.  All  perfectly  legal.  From  one  M.D.  to  another. 

Thus  we  do  not  simply  abandon  the  field  to  the 
opponent;  we  make  it  difficult  for  him  to  advance 
by  showing  perseverance  in  single  acts  of  resistance. 
In  this  way  we  prepare,  while  retreating,  for  the 
count ermovement.  ( I  Ching  IV ) 

Walter  paced  the  floor.  Then  he  clapped  his 
hands  together  and  stuck  out  his  chin  and  spoke 
with  dogged  determination. 

It's  right  and  it  should  be  done.  But  it's  got  to 
be  done  openly.  I'll  call  my  thesis  adviser  and 
Boston  University  and  the  president  of  the  Semi- 
nary, and  if  they  don't  object  then  we  will  ...  his 
voice  dropped  off  and  he  gulped  ...  do  it  in  spite 
of  Dr.  Farnsworth. 

The  next  day  the  telephone  kept  ringing  every 
few  minutes.  Walter's  voice  kept  growing  with 
confidence.  Everyone  agreed. 

On  Holy  Thursday  evening,  only  eighteen  hours 
before  the  Sacred  Three-Hour  Vigil,  we  got  the 
pills  and  had  them  ground  down  to  powder  and 
sorted  into  plain  envelopes  with  code  numbers  to 
set  up  the  double  blind  experiment. 

Then  at  midnight  on  the  eve  of  Good  Friday  I 
called  the  chairman  of  my  department  at  Harvard. 
Look,  David,  I  just  want  to  tell  you,  in  front,  that 
we  have  the  sacrament  and  we  are  going  ahead  with 
the  religious  experiment. 

David  groaned.  Oh  God,  why  did  you  have  to 
tell  me  in  advance? 

Because  we  don't  play  secret  games,  David.  Why 
do  you  groan? 


310  00    Perform  Miracles 


Walter  H.  Clark 
Research  Project  Report: 

I  regard  the  experience  as 
a  personal  shaking  to  the 
foundations. 


The  radical  facing  of  my- 
self forced — or  perhaps  I 
should  say  released  by  the 
drug — was  a  trauma  the 
depth  of  which  was  totally 
unexpected. 


I  would  describe  the  ex- 
perience as  a  conversion 
experience  of  the  most  radi- 
cal nature  rather  than  a 
mystical  experience  of  the 
classical  variety  as  Stace 
has  defined  it. 


Yet,  though  without  many  of 
the  indications  of  mystical 
experience,  I  know  I  will 
understand  the  mystics 
much  better,  having  had  the 
experience. 


Even  some  of  the  moving 
expressions  of  the  Bible 
and  religion  pale  in  my  at- 
tempt to  describe  the  ex- 
perience. 


Because  now  I  may  have  to  make  an  administra- 
tion decision. 

I  laughed.  It  was  too  classic!  Poor  Pilate!  David, 
that's  the  way  it  always  is.  Good  Friday  always 
poses  problems  for  administrators. 

We  assembled  at  the  Seminary  at  ten  the  next 
morning.  The  guides  would  drive  the  students  to 
the  ceremony.  Five  rooms  in  the  basement  of  the 
Boston  University  chapel  were  reserved  for  the 
groups.  My  group  of  six  sat  around  waiting.  The 
students  had  Bibles.  Pahnke  walked  in  with  the 
envelopes— each  coded.  In  each  envelope  was  a 
capsule  containing  white  powder. 

I  asked  one  of  the  students  to  say  a  prayer  and 
we  remained  in  silence  for  a  while  and  then  we 
took  the  pill. 

Then  we  all  sat  waiting  to  discover  what  we  had 
taken.  The  students  were  reading  their  Bibles,  but  I 
guessed  they  weren't  concentrating  on  the  words. 

After  a  while  I  felt  something  changing  inside. 
Ah.  Good!  I  got  the  psilocybin.  I  waited.  My  skin 
became  pink  and  flushed  with  heat.  Hello.  That's 
odd.  Never  felt  like  this  from  psilocybin.  Soon  my 
body  was  radiating  heat  but  my  consciousness  was 
unchanged.  Then  I  realized  what  had  happened. 
Pahnke  had  given  us  a  placebo  with  a  somatic  kick 
to  fool  us.  I  found  out  later  it  was  nicotinic  acid. 

I  looked  up  and  saw  that  two  students  had 
flushed  faces.  They  were  squirming  with  pleased 
expressions.  One  of  them  winked  at  the  other.  He 
rose  and  said  he  was  going  to  the  toilet.  The  other 
red-faced  student  joined  him.  As  guide,  I  trailed 
along.  Inside  the  John  they  were  exulting  like  happy 
conspirators.  We  must  have  got  the  mushroom. 
Yeah,  I  can  feel  it.  We're  the  lucky  ones.  I  smiled 
and  kidded  them  about  playing  the  placebo  game. 
While  we  stood  there  the  door  banged  open.  A 
third  student  from  our  group  walked  in.  He  looked 
neither  left  nor  right.  No  greetings.  His  eyes  were 
glowing  and  he  was  smiling.  He  walked  to  the 
window  and  stood  for  a  long  time  looking  out. 
Jesus,  he  cried,  God  is  everywhere.  Oh  the  Glory  of 
it!  Then  he  walked  out  without  a  word.  No  social 
games  with  him. 

The  two  red-faced  students  looked  solemn. 
Hopes  dashed. 


April  1962  00    311 


It's  a  ridiculous  ritual  to  run  a  double  blind  study 
using  psychedelic  drugs.  After  thirty  minutes 
everyone  knows  what  has  happened,  who  has  taken 
the  sacrament. 

Just  before  noon  Pahnke  came  through  and  had 
us  all  go  to  the  small  chapel.  Thirty  of  us  sat  in  the 
dim  candlelight.  Dean  Howard  Thurmond  came  in, 
robed  and  vested.  He  spoke  a  few  words.  Quietly, 
serenely.  He  blessed  us  and  left. 

Then  through  the  speakers  we  could  hear  him 
begin  his  three-hour  service  in  the  main  chapel 
above.  Prayers.  Organ  music.  Hymns. 

It  was  easy  to  tell  who  had  taken  the  psychedel- 
ics.  Ten  students  sat  attentively  like  good  wor- 
shipers. Facing  the  altar.  Silent.  The  others  were 
less  conventional.  Some  lay  on  the  benches— one 
lay  on  the  floor.  Some  wandered  around  the  chapel 
murmuring  in  prayer  and  wonderment.  One 
chanted  a  hymn.  One  wandered  to  the  altar  and 
held  his  hands  aloft.  One  sat  at  the  organ  bench 
and  played  weird,  exciting  chords. 

One  wanted  to  go  out.  The  doors  to  the  basement 
were  locked  and  a  doorkeeper  was  on  guard.  I  told 
Pahnke  I'd  accompany  his  restless  mystic.  We 
walked  along  the  avenue.  Cars  whizzed  by.  I  felt 
fear  and  moved  to  the  street  side  of  my  charge.  I 
had  a  fantasy  he  might  run  out  in  the  avenue.  He, 
of  course,  read  my  mind.  You  are  so  brutally  aware 
of  where  things  are  at  during  a  session.  Telepathy? 

He  glanced  at  me,  as  if  to  say,  Is  that  the  game? 
So  he  tried  to  edge  by  me  to  walk  on  the  curb.  I  got 
more  scared.  He  made  a  feint  to  run  into  the  street. 
My  paranoia  had  forced  him  into  the  role  of  pris- 
oner, seeking  to  escape. 

Then  I  caught  on  and  laughed.  Let's  not  play 
that  silly  game,  I  said.  He  nodded.  We  walked 
around  the  chapel.  He  was  out  of  his  mind.  Con- 
fused. Struggling  for  meaning.  What  is  it  all  about? 
Who  is  running  the  show?  What  am  I  supposed  to 
do? 

We  walked  back  to  the  basement.  My  student 
was  still  frightened.  I  kept  too  close  to  him.  My 
concern  alarmed  him.  He  ran  to  the  piano  and 
banged  down  the  lid  savagely.  He  ran  to  the  wall 
and  grabbed  a  picture,  holding  it  above  his  head 
ready  to  smash  it  if  he  were  approached. 


Some  would  include:  de- 
scent into  hell  and  resur- 
rection, death  and  transfig- 
uration, the  moment  of 
truth,  naked  on  the  shores 
of  eternity,  etc. 


I  seemed  to  live  a  lifetime 
of  pain  and  tragedy  as  I 
saw  myself  stripped  bare, 
and  at  the  time  seemingly 
little  to  fall  back  on  to  sat- 
isfy my  swollen  ego. 


Today,  I  am  beginning  to 
think  that  maybe  there  was 
something  left  after  all,  but 
I  never  want  to  forget  a 
vision  of  my  vainglorious 
ego  that  came  to  me  in  the 
midst  of  the  experience. 


Another  curious  upswelling 
from  my  unconscious,  I 
suppose,  was  the  sense  of 
the  depth  of  my  love  for 
my  wife  and  my  need  of  her. 


312  00    Perform  Miracles 


In  part  this  was  triggered  by 
the  spectacle  of  the  couples 
around  me.  In  a  psycho- 
logical sense  it  was  almost 
as  if  I  were  married  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life  during 
the  session. 


Something  of  this  I  was  im- 
pelled to  share  with  my  wife 
by  telephone  after  the  ses- 
sion. 


Another  very  basic  dis- 
covery was  a  clear  sense  of 
values:  I  knew  what  was 
important  in  my  life  and 
what  was  less  important 
more  clearly  than  ever  be- 
fore. 


I  sat  down  quickly  and  put  my  hands  in  the 
position  of  prayer  and  called  him.  He  stared  at  me 
for  a  long  minute.  Then  he  relaxed.  About  the  least 
threatening  thing  you  can  do  to  another  human 
being  is  to  sit  down  in  the  prayer  position  in  front 
of  him.  It  always  works. 

He  came  over  and  sat  down  in  front  of  me.  I 
motioned  for  him  to  place  his  hands  in  prayer.  He 
looked  at  me  in  panic  and  raised  his  fists.  I  looked 
in  his  eyes— flaming  in  terror.  Is  that  what  hands 
are  for?  To  destroy  ...  to  grab  .  .  .  to  hit  .  .  . 
oh,  you  good  Christian,  have  you  forgotten  your 
religion?  Don't  you  remember  that  hands  are  for 
worship?  For  prayer?  I  grabbed  his  hands.  He 
started  to  pull  away  but  held  on.  He  really  liked  the 
physical  contact  and  the  gentle  control.  Your  hands 
are  for  prayer.  Let  us  pray,  brother.  I  held  his 
hands  tight  and  started  chanting  .  .  .  God  .  .  . 
Jesus  Christ  .  .  .  man  .  .  .  God  .  .  .  Jesus  Christ 
.  .  .  man.  .  .  .  His  body  visibly  relaxed.  Then  he 
smiled.  Then  he  looked  at  my  face  in  reverent  love. 
He  embraced  me.  I  held  him  in  my  arms.  About  ten 
people  were  watching  in  awed  curiosity.  I  could 
feel  the  warmth  of  his  body  and  the  trembling.  He 
began  to  stroke  my  hair.  His  caress  became  sexual. 
I  took  his  hands  and  placed  mine  around  his  in  the 
position  of  prayer.  Then  I  began  chanting  the 
Lord's  Prayer.  Our  Father  .  .  .  yes,  all  our  Fathers 
.  .  .  who  are  in  Heaven  .  .  .  yes,  who  art  inside 
Heaven.  Inside.  I  thumped  my  chest  and  his.  Our 
Father  who  art  within  .  .  .  Hallowed  be  thy  name 
.  .  .  yes,  holy  be  all  thy  names  .  .  .  Sacred 
Fathers  and  Grandfathers  .  .  .  Holy  ancestors. 
.  .  .  Thanks,  Holy  Father,  for  living  and  dying  to 
create  us,  and  give  us  through  seed  and  sperm  our 
birth  to  life.  .  .  .  Thy  Kingdom  come.  Thy  will  be 
done  .  .  .  out  here  on  earth,  in  this  room,  here  in 
Boston  as  it  is  in  Heaven  within. 

He  was  whispering  the  words  over  and  over 
again.  Our  Father.  Holy  be  thy  name.  Thy  will  be 
done.  Then  he  burst  into  tears  and  sobs.  He  crum- 
bled to  the  floor.  I  held  him  while  his  body  shook 
with  the  convulsive  heaving. 

Then  he  sat  up  and  looked  at  me  and  said, 
Thanks.  I'm  all  right  now.  I Ve  been  a  religious 


314  00    Perform  Miracles 


I  saw  clearly  how  certain 
fatuous  and  confused  ideas 
were  leading  me  in  wrong 
pathways;  some  of  my  senti- 
mentalities were  pierced. 


Though  ideas  of  God  and 
Christ  were  not  prominent 
in  my  experience,  I  have  no 
doubt  of  the  essentially  reli- 
gious nature  of  the  experi- 
ence. 


I  believe  that  a  psycho- 
analysis, which  only  now  I 
realize  I  needed,  could  not 
have  done  as  well  for  me 
in  helping  me  to  face  my 
own  psychological  naked- 
ness as  the  six  hours  un- 
der LSD. 


I  think  that  religion  will  ne- 
glect the  consequences  of 
this  powerful  instrument, 
with  its  implications,  at  its 
peril.  The  experience  re- 
calls Otto's  Mysterium  Tre- 
mendum.  It  was  awesome. 

00 


phony  and  a  sexual  freak  but  now  I  know  what 
prayer  is  all  about. 

The  afternoon  slowly  spun  itself  out.  No  other 
scenes  of  disorder.  Much  silent  meditation.  Later 
hushed  talking. 

By  five  O'clock  the  group  was  pretty  well  out  of 
visionary  terrain.  Pahnke  was  busy  collecting  inter- 
views on  a  tape  recorder.  He  was  most  conscien- 
tious about  his  data. 

The  plan  was  that  we  would  all  go  to  my  home 
for  a  communion  supper.  The  psychedelic  students 
were  in  no  hurry.  They  wandered  around  smiling 
serenely  and  looking  at  flowers.  The  non-psyche- 
delic students  were  bored  and  impatient. 

The  scene  at  my  house  was  gentle  and  radiant. 
The  trippers  were  still  too  much  in  it,  still  a  little 
high  and  too  stunned  to  do  much  except  shake  their 
heads  in  wonder  and  grin  and  say,  Wow!  I  never 
realized.  .  .  . 

I  was  in  the  kitchen  having  a  celebration  beer. 
Walter  Pahnke  bustled  in.  Our  eyes  met  and  we 
grinned  and  shook  hands,  laughing. 

It  was  like  the  first  session  at  the  prison.  We  had 
done  it!  We  had  proved  once  again  that  goodwill, 
and  good  motives,  and  trust  and  courage  are  the 
basic  research  tools.  It  was  a  great  spiritual  test  for 
all  of  us  and  we  would  never  forget  that  Good 
Friday  afternoon  of  death,  fear,  ecstasy  and  rebirth. 

In  the  next  few  weeks  the  results  of  the  Good 
Friday  session  kept  feeding  back. 

Pahnke  had  teams  of  interviewers  (who  knew 
nothing  about  the  study)  collecting  the  stories  of 
the  twenty  students,  rating  the  comments  and  kinds 
of  religious  experience. 

The  results  were  clear-cut  and  consistent.  The 
men  who  ate  the  mushrooms  had  mystic  religious 
experiences.  The  control  group  didn't. 

There  was  proof— scientific,  experimental,  statis- 
tical, objective.  The  sacred  mushrooms,  admini- 
stered in  a  religious  setting  to  people  who  were 
religiously  motivated,  did  produce  that  rare,  deep 
experience  which  men  have  sought  for  thousands  of 
years  through  sacraments,  through  flagellation, 
prayer,  renunciation. 


April  1962  00    315 


Psychedelic  drugs  were  sacraments. 

To  anyone  whose  values  are  spiritual,  this  study 
had  to  be  the  most  important  research  of  the  last 
few  thousand  years.  Galileo,  Newton,  Einstein, 
Oppenheimer  developed  theories  and  methods  for 
understanding  and  controlling  external  energies. 
What  produces  motion?  How  can  motive  power  be 
improved,  accelerated?  Discoveries  of  dubious 
benefit  in  their  application. 

But  the  scientific  demonstration  that  internal 
energies,  ecstasy,  revelation,  spiritual  union,  no 
longer  need  be  accidental  but  can  be  produced  for 
and  by  him  who  seeks— this  can't  be  underesti- 
mated. 

You  would  expect  that  every  priest,  minister, 
rabbi,  theologian,  philosopher,  scholar,  or  just  plain 
God-seeking  man,  woman,  and  child,  in  the  country 
would  drop  their  secular  games  and  follow  up  the 
implications  of  the  Good  Friday  study. 

But  you  know  what  happened?  The  same  reac- 
tion that  has  greeted  every  new  spiritual  discovery 
in  history.  Disapproval.  Apathy.  Opposition.  Why? 

The  trustees  of  the  Divinity  School  moved  to 
silence  Dr.  Walter  Clark.  But  they  couldn't.  This 
gentle,  thoughtful  man  consulted  his  conscience 
and  refused  to  keep  silent.  But  follow-up  studies  at 
the  Seminary  were  stopped,  and  the  divine  enthusi- 
asm of  the  divinity  students  was  blocked  and  dis- 
sipated. 

Walter  Pahnke  got  his  thesis  uneasily  approved, 
and  his  degree  was  awarded.  Walter  went  to  Ger- 
many on  a  fellowship  and  arranged  to  have  his  first 
conversation  with  God  in  a  mental  hospital  in  the 
Rhineland.  He  had  a  clinical  examination  room 
converted  into  a  shrine  and  got  a  Yale  theologian  to 
be  his  guide,  and  played  sacred  music  on  his  record 
player,  and  to  the  shocked  amazement  of  the  Ger- 
man psychiatrists  (who  are  using  LSD  to  produce 
dirty  psychoanalytic  experiences),  Walter  made  the 
eternal  voyage  and  laughed  in  gratitude  and  wept 
in  reverence.  And  only  then,  a  year  later,  did  he 
realize  the  wondrous  miracle  he  had  wrought  in 
Marsh  Chapel. 

But  he  wasn't  allowed  to  continue  his  work.  His 


From  The  Epic  of  Gilga- 
mesh: 

So  Utnapishtim  spoke,  Gil- 
gamesh,  you  came  here,  a 
man  wearied  out,  you  have 
worn  yourself  out;  what 
shall  I  give  you  to  carry  you 
back  to  your  own  country? 


Gilgamesh,  I  shall  reveal  a 
secret  thing,  it  is  a  mystery 
of  the  gods  that  I  am  tell- 
ing you.  There  is  a  plant 
that  grows  under  the  water, 
it  has  a  prickle  like  a  thorn, 
like  a  rose;  it  will  wound 
your  hands,  but  if  you  suc- 
ceed in  taking  it,  then  your 
hands  will  hold  that  which 
restores  his  lost  youth  to  a 
man. 


When  Gilgamesh  heard  this 
he  opened  the  sluices  so 
that  a  sweet-water  current 
might  carry  him  out  to  the 
deepest  channel;  he  tied 
heavy  stones  to  his  feet  and 
they  dragged  him  down  to 
the  water-bed. 


316  00    Perform  Miracles 


There  he  saw  the  plant 
growing;  although  it  pricked 
him  he  took  it  in  his  hands; 
then  he  cut  the  heavy 
stones  to  his  feet  and  the 
sea  carried  him  and  threw 
him  on  to  the  shore. 


Gilgamesh  said  to  Urshan- 
abi  the  ferryman,  Come 
here,  and  see  this  marvel- 
ous plant.  By  its  virtue  a 
man  may  win  back  all  his 
former  strength. 


I  will  take  it  to  Uruk  of  the 
strong  walls;  there  I  will 
give  it  to  the  old  men  to 
eat.  Its  names  shall  be  The 
old  men  are  young  again; 
and  at  last  I  shall  eat  it  my- 
self and  have  back  all  my 
lost  youth. 


Gilgamesh  saw  a  well  of 
cool  water  and  he  went 
down  and  bathed;  but  deep 
in  the  pool  there  was  lying 
a  serpent,  and  the  serpent 
sensed  the  sweetness  of  the 
flower.  It  rose  out  of  the 
water  and  snatched  it  away, 
and  immediately  it  sloughed 
its  skin  and  returned  to  the 
well. 


subsequent  requests  for  government  approval  to 
repeat  his  study  have  been  denied.  The  last  thing 
the  federal  Food  and  Drug  Administration  seems  to 
want  is   the  production   of  religious   experiences. 

Dr.  Goddard,  the  aggressive,  hard-driving  politi- 
cal medic  who  runs  the  F.D.A.,  derided  claims  that 
LSD  produces  psychological  or  spiritual  benefits. 
Pure  bunk,  said  Goddard.  This  from  a  government 
official  who  had  never  taken  or  given  a  psychedelic 
chemical,  nor  observed  its  effects.  How  can  our 
country's  top  pharmacological  commissar  blatantly 
reject  scientific  data  which  doesn't  fit  his  atheistic 
bias? 

The  results  of  and  the  reactions  to  Pahnke's 
experiment  raised  many  perplexing  questions  and 
led  to  new  appraisals.  It  became  clear  to  me  that 
religion  played  a  greater  part  in  American  life  than 
I  had  realized.  Indeed  it  seemed  obvious  that  every 
expression  of  American  society— however  secular, 
materialistic,  scientific,  or  agnostic  it  may  appear— 
is  based  on  deeply  held  unconscious  religious  as- 
sumptions. America  is  an  immature,  irrational, 
superstitious,  materialistic,  priest-ridden,  intolerant, 
religious  state. 

General  Motors  is  a  religious  institution  with  its 
priests,  rituals,  gods,  saints,  devils.  General  Motors 
worships  mechanical  power  and  money.  General 
Motors  is  white  Protestant.  Jews,  Catholics,  Ne- 
groes, and  Hindus  need  not  apply  to  become  high 
priests. 

Harvard  University  is  a  completely  religious  in- 
stitution. It  worships  intellectual  power  and  dog- 
matically clings  to  academic  taboos  and  empty 
rituals.  Harvard  is  white  Judeo-Calvinist.  Cath- 
olics, Negroes,  and  Hindus,  need  not  apply  to 
become  high  priests. 

Science  itself  is  a  religion.  Fanatically  defending 
its  superstitious  rites  and  areas  of  priestly  preroga- 
tive. White  Judeo-Protestant.  Negroes,  Catholics, 
and  Hindus  just  don't  seem  to  become  high  priests 
in  science. 

The  American  government— state  and  federal— is 
a  monolithic  religious  structure.  Catholic-Protestant. 

This  insight  helps  explain  the  instinctive  revul- 


April  1962  00    317 


sion  of  the  American  intellectual-marketplace-scien- 
tific establishment  to  the  psychedelic  sacraments. 

There  are  few  Americans  over  the  age  of  twenty- 
five  who  are  not  totally  committed  to  a  dogmatic 
religious  way  of  life  and  belief.  To  admit  evidence 
(however  scientific)  which  threatens  the  theologi- 
cal structure  is  intolerable.  Morally  unbearable. 
Philosophically  impossible,  because  when  the 
superstitious  religious  structure  is  threatened,  life 
becomes  meaningless.  General  Motors  defends  its 
God.  Harvard  defends  its  God.  Scientists  defend 
their  God. 

So  the  hostile  reaction  to  Pahnke's  experiment 
and  to  our  prison  research  and  to  our  psychedelic 
studies  were  easily  understood.  We  were  nothing 
less  than  heretics.  Tread  warily,  O  prophet,  when 
you  move  onto  primitive  religious  ground. 


Then  Gilgamesh  sat  down 
and  wept,  the  tears  ran 
down  his  face,  and  he  took 
the  hand  of  Urshanabi;  O 
Urshanabi,  was  it  for  this 
that  I  toiled  with  my  hands, 
is  it  for  this  I  have  wrung 
out  my  heart's  blood?  For 
myself  I  have  gained  noth- 
ing; not  I,  but  the  beast  of 
the  earth  has  joy  of  it  now. 


In  this  case  retreat  is  the  right  course,  and  it  is 
through  retreat  that  success  is  achieved.  But  suc- 
cess consists  in  being  able  to  carry  out  the  retreat 
correctly.  Retreat  is  not  to  be  confused  with  flight. 
Flight  means  saving  oneself  under  any  circum- 
stances, whereas  retreat  is  a  sign  of  strength.  We 
must  be  careful  not  to  miss  the  right  moment  while 
we  are  in  full  possession  of  power  and  position. 
Then  we  shall  be  able  to  interpret  the  signs  of  the 
time  before  it  is  too  late  and  to  prepare  for  provi- 
sional retreat  instead  of  being  drawn  into  a  des- 
perate life-and-death  struggle.  ( I  Ching  IV ) 


Already  the  stream  has  car- 
ried it  twenty  leagues  back 
to  the  channels  where  I 
found  it.  I  found  a  sign  and 
now  I  have  lost  it.  Let  us 
leave  the  boat  on  the  bank 
and  go. 


The  miracle  of  Marsh  Chapel  was  not  just  a  scien- 
tific study;  it  was  authentic  spiritual  ceremony. 
And  like  every  valid  Good  Friday  experiment  our 
spring  solstice  death-rebirth-celebration  (because  it 
worked)  invited  excommunication  and  persecu- 
tion. We  were  involved,  not  in  a  controversial  re- 
search project,  but  in  a  classic  religious  struggle. 

The  arena  for  this  struggle  is  always  within.  The 
stakes  of  the  game  were  no  longer  academic  pres- 
tige or  scientific  renown  but  the  souls  of  the  pro- 
tagonists. 

The  psychedelic  drugs  are  sacraments,  and  like 
all  sacraments  that  work,  they  demand  your  all. 


This  too  was  the  work  of 
Gilgamesh,  the  king,  who 
knew  the  countries  of  the 
world.  He  was  wise,  he  saw 
mysteries  and  knew  secret 
things,  he  brought  us  a  tale 
of  the  days  before  the  flood. 


318  00    Perform  Miracles 


He  went  a  long  journey,  was 
weary,  worn  out  with  labour, 
and  returning  engraved  on 
a  stone  the  whole  story. 

00 


They  demand  that  you  live  up  to  the  revelation. 

Like  all  sacraments,  the  psychedelic  drugs 
threaten  society  and  that  part  of  your  own  mind 
that  is  attached  to  the  current  social  taboos. 

Like  all  new  sacraments,  the  psychedelics  re- 
quire a  new  religion. 


YOUTHFUL  FOLLY  hdS  SUCCeSS. 

It  is  not  I  who  seek  the  young  fool; 
The  young  fool  seeks  me. 
At  the  first  oracle  I  inform  him. 
If  he  asks  two  or  three  times,  it  is 

importunity. 
If  he  importunes,  I  give  him  no 

information. 
Perseverance  furthers. 

(IChing) 


CO 


PS 
H 


After  Your  Illumination, 
Why  Come  Down? 


H 

X 

M 

s 

W 

X 

o 
> 

June  1962  3 

Guide:    Krishna  ^ 

Oracle:   II  O 

The  Receptive  W 

r 

o 

The  Receptive,  Earth  H 


The  Receptive,  Earth 


T/ie  earth's  condition  is  receptive  devotion. 
Thus  the  superior  man  who  has  breadth  of 

character 
Carries  the  outer  world. 

(IChing) 


TRIP  16 


Timothy  Leary 

Start  your  own   Religion 

Drop-out — detach  yourself 
from  the  external  social 
drama  which  is  as  dehy- 
drated and  ersatz  as  TV. 


Turn-on — Find  a  sacrament 
which  returns  you  to  the 
temple  of  God,  your  own 
body.  Go  out  of  your  mind. 
Get  high. 


Tune-in — Be  reborn.  Drop- 
back-in  to  express  it.  Start 
a  new  sequence  of  be- 
havior that  reflects  your 
vision. 


Actions  which  are  con- 
scious expressions  of  the 
turn-on,  tune-in,  drop-out 
rhythm  are  religious. 


The  wise  person  devotes 
his  life  exclusively  to  the 
religious  search — for  there- 
in is  found  the  only  ecstasy, 
the  only  meaning. 

00 


By  the  spring  of  1962  we  had  been  pushed  by  social 
pressure  towards  the  classic  solutions  of  the  new 
religious  cult.  Exile  and  monastic  retreat.  There 
were  twenty  to  thirty  of  us  who  were  dedicating 
most  of  our  energies  to  the  sacrament— but  it  was 
all  upstream  against  the  instinctive  resistance  of  the 
culture.  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  U.S.A.,  was  no 
place  to  start  a  new  religion. 
Picture  yourself  afloat  on  a  river 
It  was  actually  as  unfair  to  do  research  on  the 
visionary  experience  at  Harvard  as  it  would  be  to 
expect  the  Vatican  to  sponsor  missionary  work  for 
the  Lutheran  Church,  or  to  ask  Cardinal  Cushing 
to  support  experiments  on  effective  aphrodisiacs. 
Somebody  calls  you,  you  answer  quite  lowly 
We  knew  we  had  to  leave  Harvard.  But  where  to 
go?  Like  spiritual  pilgrims  of  the  past  we  needed  a 
deserted  spot  where  life  would  be  inexpensive  and 
free  from  religious  persecution.  We  consulted  the 
atlas.  Where  on  this  shrinking  planet  would  a  small 
group  of  God-seekers  find  land  and  liberty? 
Picture  yourself  in  a  brain  in  a  station 
Then  I  remembered  the  flight  from  Mexico  in 
i960  with  Dick  Alpert.  The  quiet  fishing  village  on 
the  Pacific.  What  was  its  name?  My  finger  moved 
up  the  map  north  from  Acapulco.  There.  Zihua- 
tenejo. 
With  artichoke  trees  and  muskmelon  skies 
So,  in  April  1962,  Peggy  Hitchcock  and  Richard 
Alpert  and  I  flew  to  Mexico  City  and  then  took  a 
twin-engined  plane   to   Zihuatenejo.   The   landing 
strip  is  a  tricky  one.  The  plane  loops  down  from  the 
high  greengulch  mountain  passes  of  Guerrero  State 
and  zooms  over  the  little  village  of  brown  wooden 
huts  and  then  out  over  the  broad,  blue  bay  ringed 
with  green  hills,  and  circles  back  snaking  its  way 


320 


June  1962  00    321 


through  the  valley  to  make  a  sudden  base-leg  turn 
just  over  the  concrete  strip. 
Magazine  taxis  appear  on  the  shore 
There  were  no  large  homes  or  villas  in  the  town. 
Just  one  hotel  at  the  end  of  a  dirt  road  which 
highcircled  the  bay,  south  of  the  village.  The  mana- 
ger of  the  hotel  was  a  dignified,  slender,  soft- 
spoken  Swiss  gentleman.  There  was  no  business 
during  the  summer.  It  was  very  possible  that  the 
owner  would  close  the  hotel  to  the  public  during 
July  and  August  and  rent  it  to  us  as  a  summer 
retreat. 

Suddenly  no  one  is  there  at  the  turnstile 
Letters  and  funds  passed  through  the  mails,  and 
in  June  I  left  for  Mexico  to  set  up  the  hotel  for  the 
summer.  Richard  was  to  take  charge  of  my  house 
and  make  it  a  center  for  receiving  and  transmitting 
the  pilgrims. 
Where  puppet-show  people  eat  cantaloupe  pies 
In   Mexico   City   I   contacted   Parsons   and   Pat 
Bolero.  Parsons  was  a  sociologist  who  had  lived  in 
Mexico  for  several  years.  They  had  been  turned-on 
by  one  of  our  Harvard  missionaries  and  were  both 
ecstatically  converted  to  the  wonders  of  psilocybin. 
I  invited  them  to  join  us  in  Zihuatenejo.  They,  in 
turn,  invited  me  to  come  to  their  country  home  in 
Tepoztlan  to  run  a  session  for  them. 
Everyone  smiles  as  you  drift  past  the  hours 
There  were  a  few  free  days  before  we  took  over 
the  lease  on  the  hotel  in  Zihuatenejo,  so  I  agreed  to 
guru  their  trip. 
Climb  on  the  top  with  your  head  in  the  crowds 
We    arrived    at   Tepoztlan    after   sunset.    I    re- 
membered the  visit  to  the  McClellands'  two  sum- 
mers before,  and  how  much  had  happened  and 
how  much  I  had  changed  since  the  last  time  I  left 
that  dark,  unyielding  valley. 

The  atmosphere  of  Tepoztlan  hit  as  soon  as  we 
drove  into  the  plaza.  You  were  far  removed  from 
the  twentieth  century.  The  few  stores  lighted  by 
candle  and  kerosene.  The  hulking  shadow  ruins  of 
the  old  church.  The  high  cliff  walls.  Enormous, 
rugged  rock-carved  stage  set,  waiting.  The  place 
was  alive,  dark  stone  eyes  watching,  vined  tendril 


How  to  turn-on. 

To  turn-on  is  to  detach 
from  the  rigid  addictive  fo- 
cus on  the  fake-prop  TV 
studio-set  and  to  refocus 
on  the  natural  energies 
within  the  body. 


1.  Come  to  your  senses — 
focus  on  sensory  energies. 


2.  Resurrect    your    body — 
focus  on  somatic  energies. 


3.  Drift  down  cellular  mem- 
ory tracks  beyond  the 
body's  space/time — focus 
on  cellular  energies. 


4.  Decode  the  genetic  code. 


Tuming-on  is  a  complex, 
demanding,  frightening,  con- 
fusing process.  It  requires 
diligent  yoga. 


Tuming-on  requires  a  guide 
who  can  center  you  at  the 
TV-stage-prop  level  and  at 
the  sensory,  somatic,  cellu- 
lar and  molecular  levels. 


When  you  turn-on  remem- 
ber: You  are  not  a  naughty 
boy  getting  high  for  kicks. 


322  oo    Why  Come  Down? 


You  are  a  spiritual  voyager 
furthering  the  most  ancient, 
noble  quest  of  man.  When 
you  turn-on  you  shed  the 
fake-prop  TV  studio  and 
costume  and  join  the  holy 
dance  of  the  visionaries. 
You  leave  LBJ  and  Bob 
Hope;  you  join  Lao  Tse, 
Christ,  Blake.  Never  un- 
derestimate the  sacred 
meaning  of  the  turn-on. 


To  turn-on  you  need  a  sac- 
rament. A  sacrament  is  a 
visible  external  thing  which 
turns  the  key  to  the  inner 
doors.  A  sacrament  must 
bring  about  bodily  changes. 
A  sacrament  flips  you  out  of 
the  TV-studio  game  and 
harnesses  you  to  the  two- 
billion-year-old  flow  inside. 


A  sacrament  which  works  is 
dangerous  to  the  establish- 
ment which  runs  the  fake- 
prop  TV  studio — and  to  that 
part  of  your  mind  which  is 
hooked  to  the  studio  game. 


Each  TV-prop  society  pro- 
duces exactly  that  body- 
changing  sacrament  which 
will  flip-out  the  mind  of  the 
society. 


ears  listening.  Waiting  for  the  next  itinerant  human 
road-show  troupe.  And  no  compromise.  No  pre- 
tense. No  gesture  of  recognition  for  the  intruding 
European  game.  Implacable,  neutral,  obsidian  dis- 
interest. 

Styrafoam  flowers  of  purple  and  green 

Powering  over  your  head 

We  drove  along  rutted  roads  past  darkened  huts, 
the  car  jolting,  the  headlights  tracing  an  eerie 
course  through  tunnels  of  vegetation.  We  were 
driving  right  out  of  civilization  down  some  leafy 
time  tube  into  the  Aztec  past. 

We  ran  through  the  rain  into  the  rambling  one- 
story  villa.  There  was  no  electricity.  Candles  flick- 
ered on  the  adobe  walls  along  the  carved  wooden 
beams.  Rectangles  of  color  gleamed  from  paintings. 

Waiting  to  take  you  to  play 

We  started  a  fire  and  sat  by  the  hearth.  I  brought 
out  a  glass  jar  of  LSD  sugar  paste  which  Michael 
Hollingshead  had  given  me  as  a  farewell  present. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  villa  seeped  through  the 
windows.  The  sacred  vale  of  tribal  legend.  Home  of 
the  Gods.  Zapata,  the  pure  Robin-Hood  revolution- 
ary, had  swept  down  from  the  mountain  and 
sacked  the  houses  of  the  rich  and  quartered  his 
horses  in  the  church.  Centuries  of  blood  and  sacri- 
fice and  passion  and  terror  and  struggle.  The  place 
trembled  with  old  vibrations.  You  felt  close  to 
powerful  energies.  Untouched  by  the  metal  hum  of 
machinery.  You  felt  flesh,  seed,  and  nameless  forces. 

And  you're  gone 

Pat  Bolero  shuddered  and  whispered  something 
to  Parsons.  He  looked  at  me.  Pat  is  frightened  and 
wants  you  to  take  the  sacrament  with  us. 

Climb  on  the  top  with  your  head  in  the  crowds 

I  said  I  would.  It  often  happens  this  way.  The 
unplanned  challenge.  The  time  to  die  chosen,  not 
by  your  mind,  but  by  the  flow  of  events. 


Today  the  sacrament  is 
LSD.  New  sacraments  are 
coming  along. 


Applied  to  human  affairs,  therefore,  what  the 
hexagram  indicates  is  action  in  conformity  with  the 
situation.  The  person  in  question  is  not  in  an  inde- 
pendent position,  hut  is  acting  as  an  assistant.  This 
means  that  he  must  achieve  something.  It  is  not  his 
task  to  try  to  lead— that  would  only  make  him  lose 


June  1962  00    323 


the  way— but  to  let  himself  be  led.  If  he  knows  how 
to  meet  fate  with  an  attitude  of  acceptance,  he  is 
sure  to  find  the  right  guidance.  The  superior  man 
lets  himself  be  guided;  he  does  not  go  ahead 
blindly,  but  learns  from  the  situation  what  is  de- 
manded of  him  and  then  follows  this  intimation 
from  fate.  ( I  Ching  II ) 

And  so,  once  again,  the  guru  was  to  become 
disciple,  the  leader  was  to  be  led.  I  was  overdue  for 
a  powerful  trip.  All  that  spring  I  had  been  guiding 
pilgrims,  going  up  with  them  but  never  all  the  way 
for  me,  always  lagging  back  a  little  to  be  there  for 
the  customers.  Being  influenced  by  their  visions. 
Sharing  their  confusions  but  always  keeping  my 
mind  focused  and  responsible. 

I  was  shaken  up  by  the  struggles  of  our  spring- 
time religious  revival.  I  was  disturbed  by  the  heavy 
Christian  structure,  perplexed  by  the  holding  back. 
The  inhibiting,  social  strength  of  the  Christian 
Church  and  its  power  to  bind.  Religion.  Their  fear 
of  God  and  their  fear  of  God's  voice  and  their  fear 
and  guilt  of  breaking  loose  and  their  fear  of  sus- 
pending, even  for  a  few  minutes,  the  middle-class 
television  set. 

With  cellophane  porters  with  looking  glass  spies 

I  needed  a  complete,  whack-out,  liberating  ses- 
sion to  untangle  from  the  Protestant  social  web,  so 
sterile  and  anti-sense  and  anti-Christ,  so  false  to  the 
memory  of  that  half-naked  barefoot  sensual  Jew 
visionary  prophet  who  sat  on  the  floor  to  wash  dirty 
feet  and  then  stood  up  to  the  Roman  Empire. 

That  spring  had  been  exciting  and  dramatic  and 
deeply  moving— to  participate  in  the  sacred  mo- 
ments of  so  many  ministers.  But  there  was  a  nag- 
ging residual  of  disappointment  in  those  good, 
honest,  liberal,  generous  Protestants. 

They  had  lost  the  fire  somehow.  They  had  lost 
the  pulse.  Their  thing  was  dying  and  they  knew  it. 
The  Protestants  just  weren't  religious.  Their  great 
thing  was  their  social  instinct,  their  sense  of  equal- 
ity. But  in  their  protest  against  the  superstition  and 
authoritarian  priesthood  they  had  lost  the  magic. 
When  they  threw  out  the  statues  and  the  incense 
and  the  robes  and  the  chanting  (all  the  sensory 


Sacraments  wear  out.  They 
become  part  of  the  social 
TV-studio  game.  Treasure 
LSD  while  it  still  works.  In 
fifteen  years  it  will  be  tame, 
socialized,  and  routine. 


You  cannot  stay  tumed-on 
all  the  time.  You  cannot 
stay  any  place  all  the  time. 
That's  a  law  of  evolution. 


After"  the  revelation  it  is 
necessary  to  drop-back-in, 
return  to  the  fake-prop  TV 
studio  and  initiate  small 
changes  which  reflect  the 
glory  and  meaning  of  the 
turn-on.  You  change  the 
way  you  move,  the  way  you 
dress;  you  change  your  cor- 
ner of  the  TV-studio  society! 


You  begin  to  look  like  a 
happy  saint!  Your  home 
slowly  becomes  a  shrine. 
Slowly,  gently  you  start 
seed  transformations  around 
you.  Psychedelic  art.  Psy- 
chedelic style.  Psychedelic 
music.   Psychedelic  dance. 


The  directors  of  the  TV 
studio  do  not  want  you  to 
live  a  religious  life.  They 
will  apply  every  pressure 
(including  prison)  to  keep 
you  in  their  game. 


Your  own  mind,  which  has 
been  corrupted  and  neuro- 
logically  damaged  by  years 
of  education  in  fake-prop 
TV-studio  games,  will  also 
keep  you  trapped  in  the 
game. 


324  00   Why  Come  Down? 


A  group  liberation  cult  is  re- 
quired. 


You  must  form  that  most 
ancient  and  sacred  of  hu- 
man structures — the  clan.  A 
clan  or  cult  is  a  small  group 
of  human  beings  organized 
around  a  religious  goal.  (If 
you  don't  belong  to  a  clan, 
you  are  a  computer.) 


The  flow  of  energy 

here 
it 
is 

nameless 
timeless 
speed  of  light 


float 


beyond  fear 


float 


beyond  desire 


into 

this    mystery    of    mysteries 

through  this  gate 

of  all  wonder 


The  sex  cakra 


Rainbow 


Can  you  float  through  the 
universe  of  your  body  and 
not  lose  your  way? 


sacraments),  it  became  social  and  rational  and 
senseless. 

There  was  the  strong  need  for  some  sort  of 
channel  for  the  religious  energies  we  were  releas- 
ing. And  it  was  obvious  that  the  Christian  structure 
was  too  rigid  and  fixed.  The  Christian  model  just 
couldn't  take  the  charge.  To  turn-on  an  American 
Christian  to  the  two-billion-year  divine  process  was 
like  harnessing  a  million-watt  electric  generator  to  a 
crystal  set.  The  flimsy,  modern,  mythless,  rootless 
American  Christian  Church  just  blew  its  fuse  and 
disconnected  the  impulse.  And  the  fuse  was  the 
familiar  rationalization  business.  A  week  after  the 
session  they'd  still  be  glowing  and  God-like,  but 
after  a  month  they  were  sinking  back  into  their 
routines.  Forgetting  their  antiquity  and  divine  mis- 
sions. Questioning  their  visions.  They  heard  the 
word  of  God  and  promptly  forgot  it. 

Look  for  the  girl  with  the  moon  in  her  sighs 

The  new  revelation  demands  a  new  body.  And 
the  embryonic  processes  were  astir  that  summer, 
beginning  to  uncoil  before  the  fire  in  the  villa  in  the 
valley  of  Tepoztlan. 

And  she's  gone 

The  darkgreen  valley  of  Tepoztlan  seemed  cen- 
turies removed  from  the  Union  Theological  Semi- 
nary. 

Follow  her  down  to  the  bridge  by  a  castle 

We  meditated  for  a  while  and  then  I  picked  up 
the  bottle  and  dug  out  a  heaping  tablespoonful  for 
Pat  and  one  for  ParsOns  and  one  for  myself.  Pat 
was  very  nervous,  so  I  took  a  strand  of  sacred 
beads  from  my  neck  and  put  them  on  her.  This  will 
guide  you  if  you  get  lost  or  frightened.  You  never 
knew  how  much  you  were  getting  with  Michael's 
material  and  it  was  soon  obvious  that  we  had  taken 
a  generous  loving  spoonful. 

There  was  only  the  sound  of  the  fire  crackling 
sharper  and  sharper.  An  electric  hush  enveloped 
the  room.  It  was  a  perfect  Zen  moment.  I  was  dead. 
The  Timothy  Leary  game  was  suspended  and  the 
needle  point  of  consciousness  was  free  to  move  into 
any  one  of  thirteen  billion  nerve  cells  or  down  any 
one  of  a  billion  billion  genetic-code  networks. 


June  1962  00    325 


That  grow  so  inedibly  high 

First  the  dial  swung  to  the  sensory.  The  noise  of 
the  fire  was  the  sound  of  every  energy  transforma- 
tion. The  crackling  of  galactic  suns. 

Then  the  dial  swung  to  olfactory  sensations.  The 
room  was  filled  with  spaghetti  tangles  of  smell 
tapes  and,  dog-like,  I  sorted  through  them.  I  could 
see  each  distinctive  fume  of  scent.  The  hodgepodge 
of  chemical  belts  spilling  out  of  the  kitchen.  Dozens 
of  molecule  threads— organic  decomposing,  per- 
fumed from  the  bathroom,  pouring  into  the  living 
room  like  mountain  streams  rushing  to  the  lake.  I 
could  see  each  rivulet  of  odor  rising  from  Pat's 
warm  steaming  female  body.  And  from  Parsons' 
malehood.  Each  object  in  the  room  emitted  its 
cloud  of  vapors— fabrics,  molds,  dyes,  leather, 
wood. 

Then  consciousness  buried  itself  in  tissued 
memories.  A  rapid  newsreel  sequence  of  my  life. 
Early  childhood  picture  albums.  Model  A  Fords. 
Cotton  candy  at  the  beach. 

It  was  very  dark  and  the  wind  howled  terribly 
around  her,  but  Dorothy  found  she  was  riding  quite 
easily.  After  the  first  few  whirls  around,  and  one 
other  time  when  the  house  tipped  badly,  she  felt  as 
if  she  were  being  rocked  gently,  like  a  baby  in  a 
cradle.  (The  Wizard  of  Oz) 

The  loneliness  of  long  nights  in  the  attic  bedroom 
watching  the  headlights  of  cars  approaching  the 
house,  turning  at  the  corner  and  disappearing,  red 
taillights  winking.  Electronic  tissue  hum  of  the 
neural  film  projector. 

Then  I  heard  Pat  moving,  and  her  powerful 
image-energy  machine  flooded  mine  and  I  spun 
into  her  head.  Gasping  marshmallow  flesh-fluff 
erotic  jumping  rapture. 

Rumble  seat  sex.  The  dirty,  skirty  thirties.  Who 
.  .  .  means  your  happiness  .  .  .  who  .  .  .  will 
you  answer  yes  .  .  .  who  .  .  .  well  you  ought  to 
guess  .  .  .  who  ...  no  one  but  you.  .  .  .  Pat's 
breath,  whisky  scented,  fragile  perfume  of  life 
.  .  .  breath,  air,  sighing,  air  equals  orgasm,  air  is 
life. 

Sudden  revelation  into  workings  of  oxygen  mo- 


Can  you  lie  quietly 

engulfed 

in  the  slippery  union 

of  male  and  female? 


Warm  wet  dance  of  genera- 
tion? 


Endless        ecstasies 
couples? 


of 


Can  you  offer  your  stamen 
trembling  in  the  meadow  for 
the  electric  penetration  of 
pollen  while  birds  sing? 


Wait  soft  feathered, 
quivering,  in  the  thicket 
while  birds  sing? 

Can  you  coil  serpentine 
while  birds  sing? 

Become  two  cells  merging? 

Slide  together  in  molecule 
embrace? 

Can  you,  murmuring, 

lose 

all 

fusing 

rainbow 

Ethereal  pool  without  source 

Empty  bowl  of  radiance 
full  of  universe  and  star 

silent 

void 

shimmering 

ancestor  of  all  things 


326  00    Why  Come  Down? 


Here 

All  sharpness 

rounded 

All  wheels 

glide  along 

soft  tracks 

of  light 


Ethereal  pool  without  source 


Preface  to  life 


Remember,  you  are  ba- 
sically a  primate.  You  are 
designed  by  the  two-billion- 
year  blueprint  to  live  in  a 
small  band. 


You  cannot  accept  the  po- 
litical or  spiritual  leadership 
of  anyone  you  cannot 
touch,  con-spire  (breathe) 
with,  worship  with,  get  high 
with. 


Your  clan  must  be  centered 
around  a  shrine  and  a  to- 
tem spiritual  energy  source. 
To  the  clan  you  dedicate 
your  highest  loyalty,  and 
to  you  the  clan  offers  its 
complete  protection. 


But  the  clan  must  be  ori- 
entated toward  religious 
goals.  Religion  means  be- 
ing tuned-in  to  the  natural 
rhythm.  Religion  is  the  turn- 
on,  tune-in,  drop-out  pro- 
cess. 


nopoly.  In  the  year  1888,  British  scientists,  members 
of  the  Huxley  family,  discover  that  oxygen  supply 
of  earth  is  failing.  Life,  ecstasy,  consciousness  is 
oxygen.  British  aristocrats  secretly  bottle  remaining 
vapors  of  air  and  hide  it.  Air  is  replaced  by  syn- 
thetic gas  which  possesses  no  life  or  consciousness, 
keeps  people  alive  as  plastic  doll  robots.  Plump, 
mocking,  effeminate,  patronizing  Englishmen  have 
control  of  precious  oxygen  elixir  of  life  which  they 
dole  out  in  doses  for  their  god-like  amusement  and 
pleasure.  LSD  is  air. 

The  rest  of  the  human  race  is  doomed  to  three-D- 
headmill-plastic  repetition.  Trapped.  Oh  wise 
brown  Ann  who  saw  it  all.  I'd  kill  myself  to  end  the 
meaningless  rat  race  but  I'm  afraid  that  wouldn't 
stop  it.  It  would  just  spin  out  new  and  deader  IBM 
sequences.  My  flesh,  Pat  and  Parsons,  the  world 
was  turning  to  dry  brittle  hardness. 

Science-fiction  horror.  Hell!  I  wanted  to  shriek 
and  run  from  the  room  for  help.  How  to  get  back  to 
life.  Center.  Pray.  Love.  Touch.  Contact.  Human 
contact.  Parsons,  sloppy  Jewish  belly  showing.  Pat, 
swollen  Jewish  mother.  I  held  on  to  her  fat  arm, 
burrowed  into  their  body  hive.  We  huddle  in  a 
heap  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  fire,  softly  breath- 
ing together. 

Spinning  through  sexual  cellular  scrapbooks.  The 
eternal  dance  of  male  and  female.  The  restless 
panting  search.  Sniffing  search.  Where  is  she? 
When  will  she  come?  The  shock  of  contact.  Soft 
flesh— furred,  scaled,  moist,  merging.  Ah  there! 
Frantic  flailing,  jumping,  convulsive  moaning 
union.  Breathless.  Breathless.  Chuckling  she- 
wisdom.  What  else  is  important,  you  foolish 
desiccated  creature,  but  this  fire  dance  of  life 
creation? 

The  murmuring  giggling  gooey:  what  else  is 
immortal,  oh  dry  brittle,  save  this  moist  buried 
flesh  kiss? 

Pat  suddenly  called  in  terror.  I  opened  my  eyes. 
The  fire  throwing  up  jewel  flames,  colored  shadows 
on  Pat's  anguished  face.  Parsons!  Parsons!  Where 
are  you?  He  was  lying  on  the  Mexican  rug,  arms 
thrown  out.  He  roused  and  smiled  tenderly.  Here. 
Everywhere.  With  you,  love.  He  reached  up  and 


June  1962  00    327 


pulled  her  down  on  him.  She  whispered  and  mur- 
mured. He  stroked  her  long  black  hair  and  hummed 
ancient  cradle  songs. 

I  sank  back  into  delightful  tissue  recollections- 
muscle  memories.  I  could  feel  each  muscle  in  my 
shoulders  and  legs  swelling,  pulsing  with  power. 
Feel  the  hair  growing  on  my  limbs  and  the  elon- 
gated dog-wolf  foot-pad  legs  loping  and  graceful, 
prairie  freedom,  the  unspeakable  delight  of  move- 
ment, fiber  excitement.  Fierce  ecstatic  mammalian 
memories.  And  life,  animal  light,  radiating,  churn- 
ing. Life  force  uncoiling.  Hindu  flute  call.  Life. 
Light.  Incandescence.  The  high-tide,  flame-wave, 
surging  blood-hot  current  of  life. 

And  then  death.  Heavy,  cold  immobility  creeping 
up  my  body.  Oh  God.  Now  be  careful  how  you  lie. 
Your  posture  now  will  be  frozen  into  a  mountain 
marble  landscape  statue.  Be  careful  of  every  mo- 
ment of  posture  because  at  some  moment  the  sud- 
den click  of  death  comes,  and  your  last  gesture  is 
your  permanent  tombstone  statue.  Click,  the  last 
permanent  still  picture.  The  cosmic  game  of  freeze. 
I  was  paralyzing  into  sprawled  appalachian  dis- 
order, geological  pressures  on  every  muscle  (you 
remember  all  those  Greek  myths  of  metamorphosis, 
don't  you?).  So  this  is  death.  Good-bye  to  animal 
mobility,  cellular  pulsation.  Now  the  elderly  ele- 
mental mineral  consciousness  takes  over.  Had  you 
forgotten?  Rocks  are  aware.  Inorganic  matter  is 
involved  in  energy  changes,  structural  excitements, 
evolvings,  pressured  sculptings.  Inorganic  matter- 
rocks,  cliffs,  valleys,  mountains  are  alive  and  wise. 
Their  geological  squirming,  breathing  movements 
are  older,  stronger,  more  all-seeing  than  the  trivial 
dances  of  cellular  life.  The  eternal  moist  erotic 
friction  of  water  and  land.  The  tidal  caress.  The 
tender  leaf -veined  carving  of  rivers  on  the  washed 
breast  of  earth. 

For  millennia  I  lay  in  geological  trance.  Forests 
grew  on  my  flanks,  rains  came,  continental  ecsta- 
sies. Great  slow  heaving  supporter  of  life.  Vishnu 
sleeps  and  then  from  my  bowel-center-navel  out 
grew  the  long  slender  green  limb  climbing  up  from 
the  white-milk  ocean  of  formlessness  and  com- 
pleted the  lotus  blossom  of  awakedness. 


Breathing 

Drift,  drift  along  your  body's 
soft  swampland  while  warm 
yellow  mud  sucks  lazily 


Breathing 

Feel  each  cell  in  your  body 
intertwine,  merging  in  wet 
rainbow  serpent-coil  gasp- 
ing orgasm 


Breathing 

Feel  the  thudding  motor  of 
time  pulsing  life  along  the 
red  network 


Breathe 

Gently,    until    you    are    as 
warm  and  soft  as  an  infant 


Breathing 

Bring  fire  blood  flowing  into 
the  white  rooms  of  your 
brain 


Breathing 

Radiate  golden  light  into  the 
four  corners  of  creation 


Yellow-brown 


Can  you  float  through  the 
universe  of  your  body  and 
not  lose  your  way? 


Can  you  rest 
dormant  seed-light 
buried  in  moist  earth? 

Can  you  drift 
single-celled 
in  soft  tissue  swamp? 


328  00    Why  Come  Down? 


Can  you  sink 
into  your  dark 
fertile  marsh? 


Can  you  dissolve  softly? 
Decompose? 

Can  you  slowly  spiral  down 
the  great  central  drain? 

Yellow-brown 


All  in  Heaven 

and 

on  earth  below 


Is  a  crystal  fabric 
delicate  sacred 
gossamer  web 


Grabbing  hands 
shatter  it 


Watch  closely 

this  shimmering  mosaic 


Silent 
Glide 
in 
harmony 


I  opened  my  eyes.  I  was  in  heaven.  Illumination. 
Every  object  in  the  room  was  a  radiant  structure  of 
atomic-god-particles.  Radiating.  Matter  did  not 
exist.  There  was  just  this  million-matrix  lattice  web 
of  energies.  Shimmering.  Alive.  Interconnected  in 
space-time.  Everything  hooked  up  in  a  cosmic 
dance.  Fragile.  Indestructible. 

And  the  incredible  shattering  discovery.  Con- 
sciousness controlled  it  all.  Or  (to  say  it  more 
accurately),  all  was  consciousness. 

I  was  staggered  by  the  implication.  All  creation 
lay  in  front  of  me.  I  could  live  every  life  that  had 
ever  been  lived,  think  every  thought  that  had  ever 
been  thought.  An  endless  variety  of  ecstatic  expe- 
rience spiraled  out  around  me.  I  had  taken  the  God- 
step. 

I  was  dazed  by  the  infinite  permutations  that 
offered  themselves.  Relive  the  life  of  Augustus 
Caesar.  Relive  the  life  of  an  illiterate  untouchable 
in  the  squalor  of  an  oriental  city.  Lives  of  history, 
lives  of  tedium. 

A  sudden  thought.  Now  that  this  breakthrough 
of  consciousness  had  occurred,  a  new  level  of  har- 
mony and  love  was  available.  I  must  bring  my 
family,  my  friends  to  this  new  universe. 

How  simple  and  yet  we  almost  missed  it.  Now 
that  it's  been  done  we  can  never  lose  it.  How 
strange  that  I  was  the  one  to  do  it.  And  the  endless 
possibilities.  Each  person  had  an  endless  supply  of 
DNA  memory  file-cards  collected  during  their  tour 
down-there.  The  there  world  was  a  stage  to  create 
and  collect  fresh  experience  memory  cards— now 
available  for  everyone  up  here  in  heaven. 

I  called  tenderly  to  Pat  and  Parsons.  Hey.  Isn't 
this  incredible?  Look.  I  waved  my  hand  at  the 
vibrating  room.  We  are  here,  we've  made  it.  Isn't  it 
beautiful? 

They  looked  up  puzzled. 

We've  got  to  bring  our  children  here.  Our 
friends.  George.  Richard.  Peggy.  Aldous  and  Laura. 
It's  heaven. 

They  nodded.  Parsons  jumped  up  and  began 
talking  about  God.  He  suddenly  became  a  crazed, 
face-twisted  Southern  fundamentalist  minister, 
preaching  about  conversion.  Listen  to  me,  brother, 


June  1962  00   329 


weve  got  to  preach  the  word.  Tell  people  about  the 
second  coming.  It's  here.  Let  them  think  we  are 
crazy.  We  don't  care.  Shout  the  word  out!  His  voice 
rose  and  the  cords  in  his  turkey-neck  strained  and 
his  eyes  bulged.  I  was  scared.  I  could  see  that  he 
would  ruin  everything  by  acting  so  nutty.  He  was 
showing  us  how  false  and  fanatic  the  mystic  vision 
can  become  if  you  play  it  out  in  the  old  game. 

Then  he  turned  on  me.  Attack.  Brother  Tim,  you 
don't  believe.  You  are  holding  back.  I'll  denounce 
you  as  a  false  prophet,  Brother  Tim. 

I  beckoned  up  to  him.  Sit  down,  Parsons.  Here 
and  now.  Have  peace.  I  put  my  head  in  his  lap. 
Contact.  I  could  feel  him  soften.  Pat  reached  over 
and  pulled  both  of  us  on  to  her  body.  My  face  was 
on  her  breast.  Slosh.  Slosh.  Clockwork  machinery 
of  nature.  Her  soft  voice  murmured  sea  songs.  We 
merged  together. 

I  got  scared  and  sat  up.  I  was  losing  myself  in 
the  warm  ooze.  To  taste  the  sugar  or  become  the 
sugar?  Parsons  wrapped  his  arm  around  me.  We 
three  are  one.  There,  there  Brother  Tim.  You'll 
never  be  alone  again.  The  three  of  us,  we'll  always 
take  care  of  each  other.  We  were  a  triangular  soul- 
fucking  unit.  Endless  combinations.  Pat  is  the 
ocean.  Om.  Om.  Slosh.  Slosh.  All  is  well.  Human 
empires  rise  and  fall.  Pat  is  the  ocean.  Parsons  and 
I  are  huge  continental  reef-lands.  Endless  play.  The 
three-in-one  theme  repeated.  We  must  never  lose 
this  Holy  Trinity.  I  want  to  go  outside  but  Parsons 
holds  me.  We  three  are  one. 

We  sat  in  a  triangle.  Ancient  geometry  of  com- 
munication. Holy  Trinity.  Pat  was  all  Goddess.  Just 
that.  The  essence  of  all  women.  Parsons  was  a 
brown,  smooth-rubbed  Hindu.  Wise,  experienced 
priest  of  the  ceremony.  We  were  poised  serenely, 
rotating  like  galactic  systems— intricately  related. 
In  harmony.  A  trinity  of  awareness.  One  mind  in 
three  bodies.  Three  minds  in  one  body. 

I  spun  down  Parsons'  time-ladder,  became  that 
Midwestern  Jewish  boy  tending  his  father's  store, 
fled  from  Russian  pogroms,  swung,  long-bearded 
Polish  rebbe,  to  the  Hassidic  dance,  slid  down  into 
old  racial  flesh  tanks,  blubbery  bushels  of  sweating, 
lardy  tissue,  writhing  in  some  subterranean  wet 


Open  naked  eye 

Ayeee! 

Light 

radiant 

pulsating 

I've  been  blind 

all  my  life 

to  this  radiance 

Retinal  mandala 

swamp  mosaic  of 

rods  and  cones 

Light  rays 

hurtle  into  retina 

My  cross  scope 

tell  a  scope 

retinal  scripture 

vibrate  to  trembling 

web  of  light 

merge  with  the  scene 

slide  smiling 

down  retinal  whirlpool 

slide  smiling 

through  central 

needle  point 

This  is  it 

The  seed  moves  so  slowly 
and  serenely 

Moment  to  moment 

That  it  appears  inactive 

The  garden  at  sunrise 
breathing 

The  quiet  breath  of  twilight 

Moment  to  moment  to  mo- 
ment 

When  man  is  in  tune  with 
this  blissful  rhythm 

The  ten  thousand  forms 
flourish  without  effort 


330  00    Why  Come  Down? 


Really! 

it  is  all  so  simple 

each  next  moment.  .  .  . 

This  is  it! 


Suddenly  you  discover  you 
have  dropped-out. 


Drop-out  means  exactly 
that:  drop-out.  Ninety-nine 
percent  of  the  activity  of 
ninety-nine  percent  of  Amer- 
icans goes  into  robot  per- 
formances on  the  TV-studio 
stage.  Fake.  Unnatural. 
Automatic. 


To  drop-out  you  must  form 
your  own  religion. 


The  drop-out,  turn-on,  tune- 
in  rhythm  is  most  naturally 
done  in  small  groups  of 
family  members,  lovers,  and 
seed  friends. 


body  chamber,  fetid,  bladder-goiter- Yiddish  larval 
center,  the  life-death  bank.  Here  in  this  fungal 
jungle  was  the  intersection-point  of  life-death,  the 
soul  bank.  The  fleshquarters  seed  exchange  center. 
The  tissue  market.  Relentless  trading  on  the  genetic 
ticker-tape.  The  slimy  reincarnation  pool.  Un- 
attached souls  slipping  in  and  out  of  naked,  mucus- 
covered  bodies.  The  ultimate  test  of  human  caritas. 
Can  you  yield,  surrender,  join?  Or  will  you  hold 
back? 

Owens  said,  the  heart  beat  isn't  coming.  It  isn't 
.  .  .  wait,  wait.  There  it  is  .  .  .  the  aperture  was 
gaping,  the  rush  of  blood  was  coming,  and  overtak- 
ing them  was  the  gigantic  bar-room-m-m  of  the 
systole. 

The  tidal  wave  of  blood  caught  up  with  the 
Proteus  hurtling  forward  at  breakneck  velocity. 
( Fantastic  Voyage ) 

Horror!  My  flesh  is  decomposing,  merging  with  a 
million  strange  bodies,  tentacled  union,  a  moss- 
mattress  fibered  organic  connection  with  the  steamy, 
odorous,  saggy  corpulence  of  an  alien  race.  I  was 
loosening,  losing  separate  identity.  Being  swal- 
lowed up.  My  heart  beating  out  precious  blood 
which  gushed  into  the  racial  cell-soil  warming  it, 
bathing  it,  feeding  this  remorseless  Jewish  life- 
cancer.  My  blood!  My  life's  blood  bleeding  out  for 
a  strange  enigmatic  smiling,  beaked-nose  dark  race, 
older  and  wiser.  Help!  Could  I  pull  back?  Save 
myself,  rending,  tearing  the  vegetative  fibers  that 
joined  me? 

The  ultimate  test  of  yielding.  Merge.  Give.  Sur- 
render. Here,  drink  my  blood.  Take  my  body.  My 
fibers  snaking  into  the  moist  kidney  bowel  cushion 
of  the  greater  process. 

Here  in  the  bottom  of  the  flesh  pit  is  the  point  of 
seed  decision.  Can  you  open  your  billioned-tenta- 
cled  cell-body  and  let  it  merge  with  another? 

It  is  like  this.  Within  each  living  creature  is  a 
seed  center.  From  this  seed  center  emerge  millions 
of  delicate  fibers.  They  are  rainbow-colored  un- 
dulating ribbons,  softly  waving,  tender  endings, 
sensitive,  photo-electric  sensing  instruments.  Breath- 
ing in  and  out. 

These  delicate  fibers  seek  a  contact  with  conge- 
nial delicate  connections.  Exquisitely  complex— yet 


332  00   Why  Come  Down? 


For  both  psychedelic  and 
legal  reasons  you  must  form 
your  own  cult. 


Because  you  and  your  clan 
are  turned-on,  you  will  radi- 
ate energy.  You  will  attract 
attention — hostility  from  the 
TV  establishment,  enthusi- 
astic interest  from  rootless 
TV  actors  who  wish  to  join 
your  clan.  Everyone  ba- 
sically wants  to  turn-on, 
tune-in,  drop-out. 


You  must  start  your  own 
religion.  You  are  God — but 
only  you  can  discover  and 
nurture  your  divinity.  No 
one  can  start  your  religion 
for  you. 


Do  you  wish  to  use  mari- 
juana and  LSD  to  get  be- 
yond the  TV  scenario?  To 
enhance  creativity?  As  cat- 
alysts to  deepen  wisdom? 
To  deepen  meaning? 


so  simple.  This  is  the  essence  of  energy  and  its 
combination.  Molecules.  Cells.  They  are  not  smooth- 
surfaced,  rectangular,  or  carbon-ringed  units  which 
fit  together  like  bricks.  Each  molecule  is  a  heavenly 
octopus  with  a  million  floating  jeweled  tentacles 
hungry  to  merge.  Driven  by  internal  pressure, 
sexual  in  nature,  towards  union.  Molecular  bonding 
is  the  webbed  merging  of  these  multi-foliated 
tender  flower  machines. 

The  hunger  is  to  merge.  To  share  and  to  grow. 
But  the  terrible  price  of  union  is  to  lose  identity.  Be 
trapped  by  the  union. 

The  soul  of  each  human  being  is  a  soft,  floating 
octopus  seed  center,  exfoliating  searching  tendrils. 
Blunt,  gross  contact  bruises.  Grabbing  hands 
shatter.  Crude  jolting  contact  causes  these  delicate 
waving  soul  tentacles  to  withdraw,  encapsulate  like 
some  alarmed  crustacean. 

In  his  spontaneous,  natural  state  the  human  be- 
ing is  a  radiant  sun-star-cell  receiving  and  emitting, 
feeding  and  being  fed  by  harmonious  neighbors.  In 
the  absence  of  radiant,  ex-foliating  neighbors  each 
energy  center  ( atomic,  molecular,  cellular,  human ) 
withdraws,  spins  a  hard,  leathery  resistive  seed  pod 
and  waits  until  the  warm  moist  radiance  returns. 

I  felt  my  filaments  infiltrating  the  tangled  web  of 
Pat's  and  Parsons'  essence  bodies.  I  subdued  the 
selfish,  one-celled-fish  reflex  to  withdraw  into  separ- 
rate  safety.  I  surrendered  to  the  ancient  process  and 
felt  the  embracing  union. 

I  opened  my  eyes.  Pat  and  Parsons  were  sitting 
motionless,  eyes  closed.  As  my  eyes  searched  their 
haloed  faces  their  eyes  opened  and  we  looked  at 
each  other.  And  nodded. 

The  session  reel  continued  to  whirl  through  long 
buried  terrains. 

Toward  dawn  Pat  and  Parsons  withdrew  to  their 
bed  chamber. 

I  sat  alone  and  watched  the  aureal  machinery  of 
the  room.  The  air  was  filled  with  curving  color 
webs.  It  seemed  the  height  of  vulgarity  to  plod 
straight  ahead  through  the  room— like  a  blind  robot 
giant  treading  down  forests  and  cities.  I  could 
reach  up  with  my  hands  and  sculpt  the  energy 
patterns.  One  could  only  move  in  smooth  looping 
great  arcs  to  keep  in  harmony  with  the  vibrations. 


June  1962  00    333 


(There  are  at  least  two  explanations  of  the  phe- 
nomenon of  seeing  patterns  in  the  air.  The  most 
audacious  theory  is  that  the  energy  is  really  there 
and  that  the  psychedelic  eye  can  see  what  the 
mind's  blind  eye  cannot  see.  The  more  conservative 
viewpoint  would  locate  the  patterns  in  the  capillary 
or  cell-structure  networks  of  the  retina;  that  the 
vision  is  simply  the  eye  seeing  itself.  The  eye  seeing 
the  non-transparent  flaws  in  its  own  transparent 
film.  In  any  case  this  suggests  a  natural  explanation 
for  the  strange  movements  of  some  mental  patients. 
Their  stereotyped  motions.  Their  peculiar  attention 
to  invisibles.  The  expanded  consciousness  of  the  so- 
called  psychotic  is  not  hallucinatory,  but  tuned  in 
to  external  or  internal  processes  which  are  there. ) 

The  sun  had  risen  wh  h  I  walked  outside. 

The  house  was  surrounded  by  growing  creatures. 
The  house  was  a  stone  raft  floating  in  a  sea  of 
vegetation. 

It  was  Eden.  Each  plant  was  dancing,  laughing, 
a  quiet  network  of  high  intensity  conversation. 
Trembling.  Trembling.  Immediate.  I  followed  the 
garden  up  slope.  Japanese  statues.  Wise  Buddh?.- 
eyes  silently  watched.  The  garden  ended  on  a 
paved  walk  surrounding  a  swimming  pool.  Across 
the  back  wall  a  rocky  pasture  led  up  to  the  cliffs. 
On  the  top  of  the  perpendicular  cliff  wall  was  the 
house  of  the  god  Tepozteco. 

Cloud-mists  floated  along  the  pasture.  I  was 
above  the  earth.  It  was  the  beginning  of  time. 
Eden.  Above  and  beyond  the  life  down  there.  All 
connections  were  severed.  In  fact  there  was  the 
possibility  that  the  neurological  imprints  called 
Mexico  City  and  America  no  longer  even  existed— I 
peered  across  the  wall  along  the  rocky  pasture  to 
look  for  human  beings.  No  one. 

There  was  no  visible  evidence  that  the  twentieth 
century  existed. 

I  listened.  No  sounds  of  machinery.  Bird  cries. 
The  rustle  of  the  breeze  across  the  garden.  The 
crowing  of  cocks.  The  Timothy  Leary  game  now 
existed  only  as  a  memory.  I  was  liberated.  Free  to 
do  anything  I  chose.  Stay  in  the  garden.  Stay  in 
Tepoztlan.  Go  back  down  and  wander  through  the 
planet  as  anyone  I  chose  to  be.  Pick  a  role.  Select  a 
costume. 


If  so,  you  will  be  helped  by 
making  explicit  the  religious 
nature  of  your  psychedelic 
activities.  To  give  meaning 
to  your  own  script,  to  clarify 
your  relationships  with 
others,  and  to  cope  with 
the  present  legal  setup,  you 
will  do  well  to  start  your 
own  religion. 


First  decide  with  whom  you 
will  make  the  voyage  of  dis- 
covery. If  you  have  a  fam- 
ily, certainly  you  will  in- 
clude them.  If  you  have 
close  friends,  you  will  cer- 
tainly want  to  include  them. 
The  question — with  whom 
do  I  league  for  spiritual  dis- 
covery— is  a  fascinating  ex- 
ercise. 


Next,  sit  down  with  your 
spiritual  companions  and 
put  on  a  page  the  plan  for 
your  trip. 


You  will  learn  a  lot  about 
yourself  and  your  com- 
panions. You  will  see  where 
you  are  and  where  you  are 
not. 


334  00    Why  Come  Down? 


In  defining  the  goal  of  your 
religion,  you  need  not  use 
conventional  religious  lan- 
guage. You  don't  have  to 
make  your  spiritual  journey 
sound  religious.  Religion 
cannot  be  pompous  and 
high-flown.  Religion  is  con- 
sciousness-expansion, cen- 
tered in  the  body  and  de- 
fined exactly  the  way  it 
sounds  best  to  you.  Don't 
be  intimidated  by  Caesar's 
Hollywood  fake  versions  of 
religiosity. 


If  life  has  a  meaning  for  you 
beyond  the  TV-studio  game, 
you  are  religious!  Spell  it 
out! 


Develop  your  own  rituals 
and  costumes.  Robes  or 
gray-flannel  suits,  amulets 
or  tattoos.  You  will  eventu- 
ally find  yourself  engaged  in 
a  series  of  sacred  moments 
which  feel  right  to  you.  Step 
by  step,  all  your  actions  will 
take  on  a  sacramental 
meaning.  Inevitably  you  will 
create  a  ritual  sequence  for 
each  sense  organ  and  for 
each  of  the  basic  energy 
exchanges— eating,  bath- 
ing, mating,  etc. 


Reality  and  the  addiction  to  any  one  reality  is  a 
tissue-thin  neurological  fragility.  At  the  height  of  a 
visionary  experience  it  is  crystal-clear  that  you  can 
change  completely.  Be  an  entirely  different  person. 
Be  any  person  you  choose.  It  is  a  moment  of 
rebirth.  You  are  neurologically  a  naked  baby.  Of 
course  you  must  be  careful  in  choosing  your  new 
role.  How  much  game-training  is  involved?  You 
cannot  decide  at  once  to  play  center  field  for  the 
New  York  Yankees  or  to  teach  Greek  at  Harvard. 
You  cannot  move  into  a  role  position  in  a  modern 
twentieth-century  power  game.  You  cannot  decide 
to  move  into  a  status-position  or  to  take  over  a  part 
with  high  material  rewards.  But  it  is  exactly  this 
sort  of  position  that  interests  you  the  least— as  you 
look  down,  not-yet-born  Olympian  God— on  the 
turmoil  and  conflict  of  human  life.  If  you  were  God 
playfully  considering  incarnation  as  a  human  being, 
would  you  choose  to  appear  as  Lyndon  Baines 
Johnson?  Or  the  premier  of  some  European  country? 

If  ( and  when )  you  were  God,  you  chose  to  be  re- 
born in  the  simplest,  least  gamey,  non-power,  low- 
status  position.  And  you  usually  did  it  barefoot. 
Didn't  you? 

It  is  habit,  fear,  and  laziness  that  keep  people 
from  changing  after  an  LSD  experience.  It's  so 
much  easier  to  doubt  your  divinity,  drift  back  to 
speaking  English,  wearing  ties,  playing  the  old 
game. 

My  choice  in  the  garden  in  Tepoztlan  at  sunrise 
was  frighteningly  open.  Should  I  go  back  to  the 
twentieth  century? 

You  doubt  the  reality  of  this  option?  Listen. 
There  are  millions  of  Americans  in  mental  hospitals 
right  now  who  have  made  this  choice.  Out  of 
confusion  or  frustration  or  disbelief  in  the  system. 
Psychosis  is  an  ontological  state,  and  the  psychotic 
is  the  person  who  just  won't  buy  the  culture,  won't 
play  the  game. 

And  if  I  chose  to  leave  this  Eden  and  return, 
what  terrestrial  game  shall  I  play?  Which  television- 
prop  studio  shall  I  enter?  Which  part  to  assume? 

I  wandered  back  down  the  gardens,  into  the 
house.  The  living  room  was  empty.  It  glowed, 
breathed.  Glory.  Beauty. 

A    multi-branched    candelabrum    was    burning. 


June  1962  00    335 


Compelling.  Calling.  I  knelt  in  front  of  it  and 
watched.  The  wax  had  dripped  down  over  the 
wooden  branches  and  into  melted  carvings.  A  vine 
of  smoke  drifted  up  from  an  incense  stick. 

The  room  was  silent  except  for  the  whisper  of  the 
candles. 

Then  God  spoke  to  me.  Not  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. Not  in  words.  He  spoke  in  an  older  dialect. 
He  spoke  through  flame  and  scented  smoke.  (But 
He  was  not  the  flame  and  smoke. ) 

I  saw  in  a  quick  glimpse  the  design  of  the 
universe.  The  blueprint  of  evolution.  The  imper- 
sonal, staggering  grandeur  of  the  game. 

Think  of  the  auto  designers  in  a  Detroit  auto 
plant.  They  architect  a  car— but  this  living  struc- 
ture of  God's  design  is  a  trillion  times  more  com- 
plex than  a  car.  God's  automobile  is  called  the 
atom.  Each  atom  is  a  structure  of  detailed  intricacy 
held  together  by  energy  of  such  speed  and  power 
that  it  eludes  our  conception.  Each  atom  is  a  space- 
ship of  galactic  proportions  and  at  the  center  of 
each  galactic  structure  God  places  the  entire  staff  of 
his  atomic  engineers.  Do  you  understand  the  bril- 
liance of  the  design?  Suppose  that  General  Motors 
could  miniaturize  all  their  designers  and  engineers 
and  technicians  so  that  they  were  packaged  into 
every  car  that  rolled  off  the  assembly  line.  Continu- 
ously present  to  insure  efficient  operation  of  the 
automobile.  Continuously  conducting  on-the-spot 
performance  tests.  Continuously  collecting  data  on 
efficiency,  comfort,  and  safety. 

That's  the  way  the  atom  is  constructed— with  the 
intelligence  and  control  and  energy-source  all  in 
one  package  inside  the  nucleus. 

And  that's  the  way  the  cell  is  constructed.  Every 
cell  is  an  electro-chemical-social  system  more  com- 
plicated than  the  city  of  New  York— with  two 
billion  years  of  accurate  intelligence-energy-mem- 
ory built  into  the  nucleus. 

God  is  an  expert  on  miniaturization.  The  smaller 
the  unit,  the  more  central,  the  older,  the  wiser,  the 
more  complex,  and  the  more  powerful  and  faster. 

Individuals  of  every  species  are  stamped  out  like 
plastic  toys— billions  at  a  time.  Immediate  turn- 
over. Planned  obsolescense.  Spin  them  out.  Kill 
them  off. 


You  must  be  explicit  about 
the  space-time  arrangement 
for  your  God-game.  Each 
room  in  your  home  will  con- 
tain a  shrine.  Your  house 
will  not  be  a  TV  actor's 
dressing  room  but  rather  a 
spiritual  center.  Regular 
rhythms  of  worship  will 
emerge;  daily  meditation 
(turn-on)  sessions  (with  or 
without  marijuana),  and 
once  a  week  or  once  a 
month  you  will  devote  a 
whole  day  to  tuming-on. 


Time  your  worship  to  the 
rhythm  of  the  seasons,  to 
the  planetary  calendars. 


You  select  a  myth  as  a  re- 
minder that  you  are  part  of 
an  ancient  and  holy  pro- 
cess. You  select  a  myth  to 
guide  you  when  you  drop- 
out of  the  narrow  confines 
of  the  fake-prop  studio  set. 


Your  mythic  guide  must  be 
one  who  has  solved  the 
death-rebirth  riddle.  A  TV 
drama  hero  cannot  help 
you.  Caesar,  Napoleon, 
Kennedy  are  no  help  to 
your  cellular  orientation. 
Christ,  Lao  Tse,  Hermes, 
Trismegistus,  Socrates,  are 
recurrent  turn-on  figures. 

00 


336  00    Why  Come  Down? 


From  Paradise  Lost  by  John 
Milton: 

The  World  was  all   before 

them, 

where  to  choose 


Their  place  of  rest, 

and  Providence  their  guide: 


They,  hand  in  hand, 

with   wandering   steps   and 

slow, 


Through  Eden  took  their 
solitary  way. 

00 


In  any  case,  there  is  noth- 
ing for  you  to  do  in  a  col- 
lective political  sense. 


Turn-on, 
Tune-in, 
Drop-out. 


Discover  and  nurture  your 

own    divinity  and    that    of 

your     friends  and     family 
members. 


Center  on  your  clan,  and 
the  natural  order  will  pre- 
vail. 

00 


This  planet  is  a  warm  round  stone  covered  with  a 
thin  layer  of  rotting  bodies  of  dead  organisms. 
Each  is  a  teeming  field  of  decomposition  on  which 
new  layers  of  brief  transient  organisms  spin  out 
their  moment  of  convulsive  dance.  Sedimentary 
cement  cemetery. 

From  the  standpoint  of  the  isolated  individual, 
life  is  a  science-fiction  horror  story.  The  nervous 
system  mercifully  narrows  down  consciousness  so 
that  the  individual  focuses  only  on  the  immediate 
stimulus.  The  individual  is  shackled  to  a  series  of 
reactions  to  the  pressure  of  food-survival-defense 
and  is  spared  the  overview,  the  insight  that  while 
he  pursues  his  dinner  he  is  hurtling  towards  his 
own  decomposition. 

There  comes  a  point  in  every  lifetime  when  the 
blinders  are  removed  and  the  individual  glimpses 
for  a  second  the  nature  of  the  process.  This  revela- 
tion comes  through  a  biochemical  change  in  the 
body.  A  twist  of  the  protein  key  and  you  see  where 
you  are  at  in  the  total  process. 

Just  as  there  is  only  one  heaven,  so  too  there  is  only 
one  earth.  In  the  hexagram  of  heaven  the  doubling 
of  the  trigram  implies  duration  in  time,  hut  in  the 
hexagram  of  earth  the  doubling  connotes  the  solid- 
ity and  extension  in  space  by  virtue  of  which  the 
earth  is  able  to  carry  and  preserve  all  things  that 
live  and  move  upon  it.  The  earth  in  its  devotion 
carries  all  things,  good  and  evil,  without  exception. 
In  the  same  way  the  superior  man  gives  to  his 
character  breadth,  purity,  and  sustaining  power,  so 
that  he  is  able  both  to  support  and  to  hear  with 
people  and  things.  ( I  Ching  II ) 

If  this  comes  to  the  unprepared  person,  acciden- 
tally, involuntarily,  in  the  context  of  a  secular  game, 
this  revelation  is  shattering  and  crippling.  Our 
mental  hospitals  are  filled  with  such  revelatory 
casualties. 

If  the  vision  comes  in  a  spiritual  context  to  the 
person  who  is  prepared  to  accept  the  naked  awe- 
full  truth  then— during  that  exact  moment  one  is 
part  of  the  entire  process— indeed,  one  sees  that  the 
entire  process  is  one.  That  it  is  an  N-dimensional 


338  00    Why  Come  Down? 


From  the  Bhagavad-Gita: 

(Arjuna:)  Sri  Krishna,  if  you 
consider  me  as  capable  of 
beholding  it,  then,  O  Lord 
of  yoga,  reveal  to  me  your 
imperishable  form. 


(Krishna:)  Arjuna,  behold 
presently  in  hundreds  and 
thousands  my  multifarious 
divine  Forms,  of  diverse 
colours  and  different 
shapes. 


But  surely  you  cannot  see 
me  with  these  gross  eyes 
of  yours;  therefore  I  vouch- 
safe to  you  the  divine  eye. 
With  this  you  behold  my  di- 
vine power  of  yoga. 


Arjuna  saw  the  Supreme 
Deity  possessing  many 
mouths  and  eyes,  present- 
ing many  a  wonderful  sight 
decked  with  many  divine  or- 
naments, wielding  many  up- 
lifted divine  weapons,  wear- 
ing divine  garlands  and 
clothes,  besmeared  all  over 
with  divine  sandal  pastes, 
full  of  all  wonders,  infinite 
and  having  faces  on  all 
sides. 


internally  unfolding  process.  Any  point  from  which 
one  sees  the  one-ness  is  a  center.  That  one  point  of 
vision  is  the  eye  of  God,  seeing,  glorifying,  under- 
standing the  whole. 

One  such  moment  of  revelation  is  the  only  pur- 
pose of  life.  One  such  moment  of  vision  is  the  end 
point  of  the  five-billion-year  process  of  evolution  on 
this  planet.  One  such  moment  makes  the  remaining 
decades  of  life  meaningful  and  worthwhile. 

The  red-yellow  eyes  of  the  candles  and  the  direct- 
sweet  scent  of  incense  told  me  this  in  the  sunrise 
living  room  at  Tepoztlan. 

I  became  initiated  into  an  ancient  company  of 
illumined  seers.  I  understood  the  Buddha.  I  was  in 
complete  communication  with  Blake.  I  was  closer 
to  St.  Augustine,  Johannes  Scotus  Erigena,  Jacob 
Boehme,  than  I  shall  ever  be  to  any  person  in 
rational  intercourse. 

There  exists  inside  the  human  nervous  system, 
inside  our  cellular  structures  a  tissued,  biochemical 
memory-bank.  The  person  who  stumbles  onto  this 
inner  room  sees  and  knows  exactly  what  has  been 
seen  and  known  by  visionaries  in  the  past. 

Don't  talk  to  me  about  the  objectivity  of  scientific 
data  or  replication  of  observation.  Five  thousand 
years  of  visionary  experience  has  produced  a  body 
of  descriptive  text  of  such  precision  and  unanimity 
that  even  the  distortions  of  multiple  translation  and 
deliberate  academic  corruption  cannot  conceal  it. 

Kneeling  in  front  of  the  candles,  trembling  in 
reverence,  I  saw  and  heard  and  sensed  and  became 
a  member  of  an  invisible  religious  fraternity.  I 
vowed  to  dedicate  the  rest  of  my  life  to  the  preser- 
vation of  this  flame.  From  that  moment  on  I  would 
no  longer  be  an  American,  a  Harvard  instructor,  a 
twentieth  centurian.  I  was  a  visitor  to  this  modern 
artificial  stage  set.  A  wanderer  among  the  card- 
board fake-prop  studio  backdrops.  A  carrier  of  the 
ancient  message.  An  itinerant  announcer  sent  from 
central  broadcasting.  Waiting  for  the  appropriate 
moment  to  interject  the  commercial— we  interrupt 
this  program  for  a  brief  message.  You  are  all  Divine 
—wake  up!  Don't  get  caught  in  the  studio  drama! 

The  detailed  strategy  of  the  new  role  was  still  a 
mystery— the  techniques  of  the  prophetic  profes- 
sion. There  was  plenty  of  schooling  ahead. 


June  1962  00    339 


But  it  was  to  be  found.  And  it  was  to  be  found  in 
the  past.  Hindu.  Krishna.  Gautama  Buddha.  Siva. 
Ram.  Kali.  Durga.  Lila,  Maya.  Benares.  Hardwar. 
Rishikesh.  Himalaya.  Brahma.  Vishnu.  Sankara. 
Ramakrishna.  Yoga.  Samsara.  Karma.  Dharma.  The 
next  step  was  orientation. 

I  turned  from  the  candles  and  walked  to  the 
windows.  The  sun  was  at  a  low  six-in-the-morning 
angle,  just  clearing  the  trees.  I  stared  eastward, 
eyes  open.  When  I  closed  my  eyes  two  orange  hot 
disks  were  burning  up  the  purple-black  webbing  of 
my  retina.  The  two  glowing  orbs  changed  to  yellow 
and  then  merged  into  one  and  sank  into  the  tissue 
of  my  body. 

After  a  while  Pat  and  Parsons  came  out  with 
dazed  looks.  Wow!  What  happened?  Where  are  we? 

We're  in  Heaven.  Isn't  that  obvious? 

They  nodded.  What  do  we  do  now? 

Anything  we  want.  The  choice  was  razor  clean.  It 
depended  on  our  consciousness  and  on  our  persis- 
tence. We  had  the  Garden  of  Eden  going.  It  was 
consensual.  We  agreed  on  that.  Our  situation  was  a 
social  reality  as  real  as  the  illusion  that  Mexico  City 
existed,  or  Camel  cigarettes.  We  could  stay  there 
and  continue  paradise.  Stay  high.  Keep  the  thing 
going.  Invite  others  to  come  join  us.  A  new  thing.  A 
new  cycle. 

It  would  be  so  easy  to  do.  As  people  arrived  at 
the  isolated  villa,  just  treat  them  as  though  they 
had  died  to  all  that  down  there  and  were  reborn 
here.  The  three  of  us  could  do  it— just  so  long  as 
our  commitment  did  not  falter.  Just  so  long  as  we 
did  not  slip  back  into  planetary  games.  Just  so  long 
as  we  insisted  on  treating  each  arrived  friend  as  if 
he  were  a  newly  commissioned  god.  Turn  him  on. 

Every  social  structure  is  an  artifact.  An  "as-if" 
conspiracy.  A  "let's-pretend"  game.  Let's  pretend 
we're  Americans.  Let's  pretend  green  paper  is 
money. 

Any  social  game  can  continue  only  if  all  partici- 
pants share  in  the  ontological  conspiracy.  If  people 
won't  pretend  to  accept  our  reality  we  kill  them 
(American  Indians)  or  imprison  them  (mental  pa- 
tients) or  write  them  off  as  a  nutty  sect,  cult,  or 
minority. 

The  religious  cult  is  a  small  ontological  con- 


If  there  be  the  effulgence  of 
a  thousand  suns  bursting 
forth  all  at  once  in  the 
heavens,  even  that  would 
hardly  approach  the  splen- 
dor of  the  mighty  Lord. 


Arjuna,  then,  saw  in  the 
person  of  that  Supreme 
Deity,  comprised  in  one 
limb,  the  whole  universe 
with  its  manifold  divisions. 


Then,  Arjuna,  full  of  won- 
der and  with  the  hairs 
standing  on  end,  bowed  his 
head  to  the  Divine  Lord 
and  with  joined  palms  ad- 
dressed him  thus. 


Lord,  I  behold  in  your  body 
all  gods  and  multitudes  of 
different  beings,  Brahma 
perched  on  his  lotus-seat, 
Siva  and  all  Maharsis  and 
celestial  serpents. 


340  00   Why  Come  Down? 


O  Lord  of  the  universe,  I 
see  you  endowed  with  nu- 
merous arms,  bellies,  faces 
and  eyes  and  having  in- 
finite Forms  extended  on  all 
sides.  O  Form  Universal,  I 
see  neither  your  beginning 
nor  middle  nor  end. 


I  see  you  without  beginning, 
middle  or  end,  possessing 
unlimited  prowess  and  en- 
dowed with  numberless 
hands,  having  the  moon  and 
the  sun  for  your  eyes,  and 
blazing  fire  for  your  mouth, 
and  scorching  this  universe 
by  your  radiance. 


Those  hosts  of  gods  are 
entering  you;  some  with 
palms  joined  out  of  fear  are 
chanting  your  names  and 
glories.  Hosts  of  Maharsis 
and  Siddhas  saying,  'Let 
there  be  peace,'  are  extol- 
ling you  by  means  of  the 
very  best  praises. 


Lord,  seeing  this  vast  and 
terrible  Form  of  yours,  pos- 
sessing numerous  faces  and 
eyes,  many  arms,  thighs 
and  feet,  many  bellies  and 
many  teeth,  the  worlds  are 
terrified;  so  am  I. 


spiracy.  A  national  state,  an  ethnic  group,  is  a  large 
ontological  conspiracy.  A  mutually  held  paranoid 
system  about  what  is  real. 

An  ontological  conspiracy  is  a  neurological  con- 
spiracy. A  shared  consciousness.  Politics,  religion, 
economics,  social  structures,  are  based  on  shared 
states  of  consciousness.  The  cause  of  social  conflict 
is  usually  neurological.  The  cure  is  biochemical. 

The  three  of  us  in  the  villa  at  Tepoztlan  were  in 
that  rare  position  of  being  able  to  create  a  new 
reality.  We  had  the  two  factors  going— a  neurologi- 
cal liberation.  Our  game-chessboard  had  been  tem- 
porarily swept  clean.  And  we  were  in  an  isolated 
social  situation,  the  villa,  where  we  could  external- 
ize our  state  of  consciousness.  It's  much  more  diffi- 
cult to  start  a  new  reality  in  the  center  of  an 
ongoing  stage  set,  with  all  its  fierce  social  pressure 
for  its  own  ontological  survival.  Don't  plant  your 
tender  new  ontology  in  the  center  of  Times  Square 
or  St.  Peter's  Square. 

To  start  a  new  reality  is,  of  course,  to  start  a  new 
religion. 

Well,  should  we  do  it?  Should  we  commit  our- 
selves to  our  three-fold  divinity,  to  the  revelation 
we  had  received? 

A  knock  on  the  door.  There  was  our  first  test.  Our 
first  encounter  with  another  consciousness.  Three  of 
us  stood  up  and  glanced  at  each  other.  Vase  Usted. 
Come  in. 

A  girl's  voice  in  Spanish— Senor!  Senor!  Lord! 
Lord! 

Open  the  door. 

It  was  an  Indian  girl,  teen-age.  Agitated.  Tearful. 
She  scuttled  into  the  room  wringing  her  hands. 
Rapid  high-pitched  frantic  Spanish. 

The  family  is  poor  and  they  have  no  money.  We 
looked  at  each  other  questioningly.  It  was  a  biblical 
scene.  The  beggar  and  the  three  prophets. 

Ask  her  what  she  wants. 

Money  for  food. 

It  was  so  simple  and  yet  so  elusive.  The  Indian 
girl  was  trapped  in  a  karma-game  which  kept  her 
hungry  in  a  continent  of  plenty.  She  was  carrying 
around  in  her  skull  the  same  thirteen-billion-cell 
cosmic  computer. 


June  1962  00    341 


Let's  invite  her  to  step  out  of  the  illusion  of  the 
Indian  village  and  accept  her  divinity. 

What  are  you  called? 

Maria. 

Maria,  would  you  like  to  leave  your  life  as  a 
Tepoztlana  and  stay  here?  This  is  paradise. 

Maria's  face  made  a  quick  animal  motion.  She 
looked  at  each  of  us.  Fear,  confusion.  The  emo- 
tional pressure  was  intense.  We  were  staring  at  her 
with  complete  attention.  We  were  completely  there 
for  her.  Radiating  love  and  acceptance. 

Maria  fell  to  her  knees  and  began  to  sob.  It  was 
too  much. 

Lords,  I  am  a  poor  girl.  My  children  are  sick.  My 
parents  are  sick.  Money  for  food.  Money  for  food. 

I  knelt  down  beside  her.  Pat  and  Parsons  knelt 
down  too.  Pure  New  Testament.  The  four  of  us  on 
our  knees. 

I  began  to  pray  in  English.  Let  this  girl,  Maria, 
receive  the  vision.  Let  her  escape  from  her  karma. 
Let  her  find  her  divinity  and  join  us  in  creating  a 
paradise  on  this  spot.  Let  her  receive  the  revelation. 

The  four  of  us  remained  kneeling.  I  could  feel 
the  sweat  dripping  down  from  my  armpits.  There 
was  a  long  silence.  It  seemed  so  simple.  We  were  so 
close.  Just  one  shift  in  the  vibratory  frequency  and 
it  could  click  into  focus.  It  seemed  tragic  that  Maria 
should  have  wandered  in  ( or  been  sent? )  at  exactly 
this  minute  and  should  not  make  it.  It  seemed  like  a 
tragic  defeat  if  she  just  brushed  by  the  glory  and 
returned  to  her  village. 

Maria's  discomfort  became  more  visible.  She 
began  to  whimper.  I  must  go  back.  Help  me, 
Lords. 

Parsons  looked  at  me.  I  shrugged.  He  pulled 
twenty  pesos  from  his  pocket.  Maria's  eyes 
widened.  She  reached  out  a  tentative  brown  hand. 
She  took  the  money  and  kissed  Parsons'  hand  and 
ran  out  the  door. 

We  were  silent  for  a  long  time.  Here  was  a  visitor 
to  paradise.  And  all  she  wanted  was  money. 

Later  that  afternoon  a  friend  of  Parsons'  came  to 
visit.  He  was  a  social  psychologist  from  Baltimore. 
Intellectual.  Effeminate.  He  wanted  to  make  small 
talk  but  Pat  opened  right  up.  She  began  to  describe 


Lord,  seeing  your  Form 
reaching  the  heavens,  ef- 
fulgent, many-coloured,  hav- 
ing its  mouth  wide  open 
and  possessing  large  shin- 
ing eyes,  I,  with  my  inner 
self  frightened,  have  lost 
self-control  and  find  no 
peace. 


Seeing  your  faces  with  fear- 
ful teeth,  resembling  the 
raging  fire  at  the  time  of 
universal  destruction,  I  am 
utterly  bewildered,  and  find 
no  happiness;  therefore,  be 
kind  to  me,  O  Lord  of  celes- 
tials and  Abode  of  the  uni- 
verse. 


Bhisma,  Drona  and  yonder 
Kama,  with  the  principal 
warriors  on  our  side  as  well, 
are  rushing  headlong  into 
your  fearful  mouths  set  with 
terrible  teeth;  some  are 
seen  stuck  up  between  your 
teeth  with  their  heads 
crushed. 


342  00   Why  Come  Down? 


As  moths  rush  with  great 
speed  into  the  blazing  fire 
for  destruction,  even  so  all 
these  people  are  with  great 
rapidity  entering  your 
mouths  for  destruction. 


Swallowing  through  your 
burning  mouths,  you  are 
licking  all  those  people  on 
all  sides.  Lord,  your  ter- 
rible brilliance  is  burning 
the  entire  universe,  filling  it 
with  radiance. 


Tell  me  who  you  are  with  a 
Form  so  terrible.  My  obei- 
sance to  you,  O  Supreme 
Deity;  be  kind.  I  wish  to 
know  you,  the  primal  being, 
in  essence;  for  I  know  not 
your  purpose. 


I  am  the  inflamed  Kala 
(time),  the  destroyer  of  the 
world.  My  purpose  here  is 
to  destroy  these  people. 
Even  without  you  all  these 
warriors  arrayed  in  the 
enemy's  camp  will  not  sur- 
vive. 


her  vision.  She  was  chanting  ecstatic  poetry.  Songs 
of  revelation.  Pacing  up  and  down  the  room  chant- 
ing God's  message.  The  radiant  stuff  of  reality.  She 
began  to  sob  in  joy  as  she  talked— completely  taken 
by  her  memories.  Beyond  social  game.  A  moving, 
naked,  preaching,  outpouring  of  prophetic  power. 
Parsons  and  I  were  transfixed.  Completely  with 
her. 

The  psychologist  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa 
clutching  his  glass  of  rum  and  Coke.  His  smile 
weakened.  His  face  fell  apart.  Disbelief.  Disap- 
proval. Then  fear.  Alarm.  Then  a  robot  dart  of 
recognition.  You've  been  taking  drugs,  haven't  you? 

Pat  turned  toward  him.  The  flesh  of  the  gods, 
beloved  friend.  And  you  can  share  our  glory  if  you 
want  to. 

The  psychologist  jumped.  Alarm.  He  put  the 
glass  down  on  the  coffee  table  and  pushed  it  away 
from  him.  He  made  a  show  of  glancing  at  his 
watch  and  jumped  to  his  feet.  Well,  I  must  toddle 
off.  Just  stopped  in  to  say  hello.  Glad  you're  having 
a  good  time.  He  walked  quickly  to  the  door. 

He  had  just  been  exposed  to  the  eloquent  wit- 
ness, to  the  passionate,  precise  testimony  and  he 
ran  away. 

The  psychologist  had  brought  into  the  house  a 
nervous,  chattering  piece  of  metallic  mental  ma- 
chinery. Shrieking  gears,  noisy,  jarring.  After  he  left 
we  could  see  the  spinning  wheel  of  the  afternoon 
weave  back  golden  ribbons  through  the  tears  in  the 
delicate  fabric. 

We  resumed  our  divine  dance,  effortlessly,  time- 
lessly,  in  tune  with  the  pulse  of  the  house. 

We  talked,  off  and  on,  about  the  decision.  We 
could  phone  family  and  friends  back  on  earth,  Hello 
down  there.  This  is  Heaven  calling. 

Parsons  went  to  the  phone.  To  our  surprise  it 
worked.  Do  you  think  a  call  will  go  through?  A 
telephone  line  from  heaven  to  earth.  From  heaven 
to  hell.  He  began  placing  a  call  to  the  operator.  It's 
ringing. 

Hello,  Dad.  Listen,  I've  died.  Oh,  don't  be  upset. 
I'm  in  Heaven.  It's  magnificent.  You  must  come. 
When?  Now.  How?  Well,  fly  to  Mexico  City  and 
we'll  have  a  limousine  drive  you  to  Cuernavaca. 


344  00   Why  Come  Down? 


You  are  the  Prime  Deity, 
the  most  ancient  person, 
you  are  the  ultimate  resort 
of  this  universe.  You  are 
both  the  knower  and  the 
knowable,  and  the  highest 
abode.  It  is  you  who  per- 
vade the  universe,  assum- 
ing endless  forms. 


You  are  Vayu  (Wind-God), 
Yama  (God  of  Death), 
Agni  (Fire-God),  Moon-God, 
Brahma,  the  Creator  of  be- 
ings, nay,  the  father  of 
Brahma  himself.  Obeisance, 
obeisance  to  you  a  thou- 
sand times;  salutations,  O 
salutations  to  you,  again 
and  again. 


Having  seen  that  which  was 
unseen  before,  I  feel  de- 
lighted; at  the  same  time 
my  mind  is  tormented  by 
fear.  Pray  reveal  to  me  that 
Divine  Form,  the  Form  of 
Vishnu  with  four  arms.  O 
Lord  of  celestials,  Abode  of 
the  universe,  be  gracious. 


Arjuna,  being  pleased  with 
you,  I  have  shown  you, 
through  my  own  power  of 
yoga,  this  supreme,  shining, 
primal  and  infinite  universal 
Form,  which  was  not  seen 
before  by  anyone  else  than 
you. 


No.  I'm  not  drunk.  No.  I  feel  fine.  I've  never  felt 
better.  I'm  not  trying  to  upset  you,  Dad. 

Parsons  looked  to  us  and  made  a  sad  face.  Well, 
let's  put  it  this  way,  Dad,  Pat  and  I  are  happy  and 
we  love  you  and  we  miss  you  and  we  had  this 
impulse  to  call  you  and  invite  you  to  join  us.  All 
right,  Dad.  We'll  write.  Good-bye. 

The  good-bye  hung  in  the  air,  circling  the  room 
like  a  black  buzzard.  I  opened  the  window  and  it 
flew  out. 

By  nightfall  the  discussion  took  a  more  practical 
turn.  Parsons  began  talking  about  business  engage- 
ments in  Mexico  City.  Tomorrow  morning  at  nine. 

Pat  and  I  were  in  favor  of  staying,  but  our  union 
with  Parsons  was  so  strong  that  there  was  no 
question  of  a  difference  of  opinion.  We  nodded  and 
began  to  pack. 

It  was  an  eerie  scene.  Packing  bags  to  leave 
paradise  and  return  to  earth.  To  the  hell  of  people's 
striving  minds.  None  of  us  was  sure  that  anything 
recognizable  existed  beyond  the  villa.  Perhaps  the 
twentieth  century  was  a  figment  of  our  imagina- 
tions. Well,  let's  find  out.  We'll  stick  together  and 
love  anything  we  discover. 

We  got  in  the  car  and  the  motor  started.  We 
bumped  down  the  tunnel  of  trees  back  into  the 
village  square.  Well,  that  stage  set  is  still  there. 

We  turned  onto  the  super-highway  which  led 
over  the  mountains  to  Mexico  City.  Parsons  was 
tired,  so  I  drove.  It  started  to  rain. 

We  were  still  high.  Everything  was  seen  under 
the  species  of  eternity.  Parsons  pointed  to  a  car 
pulling  a  boat.  Noah's  Ark.  Pat,  the  earth  goddess, 
grew  cold  in  the  night.  We  covered  her  with 
blankets. 

The  autostrada  is  double-laned  with  white  picket 
fences  running  along  the  middle  and  the  outside. 

The  voyage  which  usually  takes  ninety  minutes 
was  endless.  Hour  after  hour  we  rolled  along.  I  still 
felt  it  was  a  mistake,  a  betrayal  of  the  command- 
ment, to  leave  Tepoztlan.  The  restlessness  increased 
as  the  hours  passed.  Then,  a  road  sign.  Return  Gate 
at  500  meters.  Well,  that's  the  message.  I  swung  the 
car  in  a  U-turn  and  headed  back.  Parsons  looked 
up  in  surprise.  Where  are  you  going?  I  pulled  the 


June  1962  00    345 


car  over  to  the  side  of  the  road.  This  highway  is 
endless.  The  sign  said  return.  I  guess  we  are  sup- 
posed to  go  back  to  the  villa  at  Tepoztlan. 

Parsons  began  to  talk  about  his  appointments  in 
Mexico  City. 

I  reversed  and  cut  back  through  the  gate  and  we 
continued  up  the  highway. 

Several  hours  passed.  There  was  no  sound  except 
the  hum  of  the  car  motor  and  the  jittery  flicking  of 
the  windshield  wipers.  Down  below  I  could  see  the 
lights  of  Mexico  City,  but  the  road  kept  circling, 
never  descending,  never  getting  closer. 

We  were  trapped.  Our  consciousness  created  this 
highway.  High  way,  indeed.  Caught  in  a  space-time 
loop.  We'll  spend  lifetimes  circling  the  city.  The  car 
kept  passing  landmarks  we  had  passed  before.  The 
same  hairpin  turn  over  and  over  again.  We  would 
remain  frozen  in  this  time-shelf  until  an  act  of 
consciousness  broke  the  cycle. 

How?  What  to  do?  It  was  a  science-fiction  horror. 
We  were  caught  in  a  relentless  orbit  doomed  to 
satellite  the  city  in  great  circles.  Perhaps  we'll  run 
out  of  gas.  No.  I  looked  at  the  gauge.  It  had  not 
changed  for  hours. 

Some  dramatic  shift  of  direction  was  necessary  to 
break  us  out  of  the  orbit.  I  looked  over  at  Pat  and 
Parsons  for  their  help.  They  slept.  It  was  up  to 


me. 


The  only  escape  was  to  swerve  the  car  off  the 
road.  What  was  a  highway  anyway,  but  a  fixed 
habit  of  consciousness?  We  can't  fly  because  our 
consciousness  can't  soar  up  to  the  possibility  of 
flight.  Our  heavy  mental  certainty  holds  us  down. 
The  only  way  to  fly  is  to  be  convinced  of  the 
certainty  of  flight.  The  only  way  to  escape  the 
tyranny  of  the  endless  highway  was  to  smash 
through  the  rational-artifactual  assumption  that  we 
had  to  stay  on  the  road. 

But  rapid  escape-velocity  was  required.  The  car 
must  be  accelerated  to  top  speed  and  then  (with- 
out my  mind  deciding),  when  the  orbit-road 
curved,  the  car  would  hurtle  forward  and  break  out 
of  the  trap,  catapult  splintering  through  the  white 
guardrail. 

It  was  so  simple.  Just  wait  for  the  next  straighta- 


Arjuna,  in  this  mortal  world 
I  can  not  be  seen  in  this 
Form  by  anyone  else  than 
you,  either  through  the 
study  of  Vedas  or  of  rituals, 
or  again  through  gifts,  or 
austere  penances. 


Seeing  such  a  dreadful 
Form  of  mine  as  this,  be 
not  perturbed  or  perplexed. 


Having  thus  spoken  to  Ar- 
juna,  Krishna  again  showed 
to  him  in  the  same  way  his 
own  four-armed  form;  and 
then  assuming  a  gentle  ap- 
pearance, the  high  souled 
Sri  Krishna  consoled  the 
frightened  Arjuna. 


Sri  Krishna,  seeing  this 
gentle  human  Form  of 
yours,  I  have  now  become 
composed  and  am  my  nor- 
mal self  again. 


346  00    Why  Come  Down? 


Neither  by  study  of  Vedas, 
nor  by  penance,  nor  by 
charity,  nor  by  ritual  can  I 
be  seen  in  this  Form  (with 
four  arms)  as  you  have 
seen  me. 


Through  single-minded  de- 
votion, however,  I  can  be 
seen  in  this  Form  (with 
four  arms),  and  known  in 
essence  and  even  entered 
into,  O  valiant  Arjuna. 


Thus,  in  the  Upanishad 
sung  by  the  Lord,  the  sci- 
ence of  Brahma,  the  scrip- 
ture of  yoga,  the  dialogue 
between  Sri  Krishna  and 
Arjuna,  ends  the  eleventh 
chapter  entitled  "The  Yoga 
of  the  Vision  of  the  Uni- 
versal Form." 

00 


way  and  then  jam  my  foot  down  on  the  accelerator. 
Accelerator.  What  a  galactic  word! 

It  just  required  the  slightest  directional  compass 
change  in  the  multi-dimensional  space  structure  to 
break  free.  Only  the  guardrail  kept  us  from  libera- 
tion. Once  the  flimsy  white  fence  (itself  a  state  of 
mind)  was  transcended  we  would  spin  free,  glide 
over  the  valley  of  Mexico  (as  Richard  and  Jack 
Leary  and  I  did  two  years  before)  and  look  down 
at  the  volcano-pitted  earth  surface,  or  perhaps  we 
would  shoot  out  into  some  new  level  of  conscious- 
ness, some  meta-planetary  psycho-physical  state  of 
gravity-free,  bird-like,  atom-flash,  time-less,  electric- 
orgasm,  telepathic  simultaneity.  Or  perhaps,  more 
prosaically,  the  car  would  tumble  down  the  cliff. 
Metal  twisting,  glass  shattering,  fatal-accident  colli- 
sion, skin-severing,  bone-crushing,  blood-soaked, 
terror-hemorrhaged.  But  was  it  not  just  a  test?  The 
bogey-monster  fear  of  protecting  your  sacred  baby 
skin.  The  challenge  to  your  egocentric  terror  of 
death.  How  can  you  reach  higher  levels  of  spiritu- 
ality without  giving  up  your  fleshly  envelope?  How 
can  you  reach  God  unless  you  sacrifice  your  ridicu- 
lous infantile  attachment  to  that  hair-covered 
mucus-filled  body?  Oh  no,  I  was  beyond  these  gross 
concerns  of  physical  comfort  and  physical  safety.  If 
the  liberation  from  the  heavy  weight  of  the  body 
meant  a  bloody,  fracturing,  rending  of  the  body,  I 
was  willing.  Thy  will  be  done. 

The  car  rolled  along  the  endless  circular  track 
faster  and  faster.  Pat  and  Parsons  slept.  I  waited 
for  the  straightaway.  My  thoughts  buzzed  around 
the  car  like  busy  bees.  .  .  .  Relentless  orbit.  .  .  . 
Doomed  to  satellite.  .  .  .  Break  out  of  the  orbit. 
.  .  .  Fixed  habit  of  consciousness.  ...  Rapid  es- 
cape velocity  required.  .  .  .  Car  must  be  accel- 
erated to  top  speed  .  .  .  without  my  mind  decid- 
ing. .  .  . 

What  was  that?  Hold  on.  Without  my  mind 
deciding.  Then  who  would  give  the  signal  to  press 
the  accelerator?  Was  it  not  my  mind  spinning  out 
its  theories  of  liberation  and  breakthrough?  Was  it 
not  my  mind  cunningly  inventing  escape  routes? 
Was  it  not  my  mind  refusing  to  trust  the  process? 


June  1962  00    347 


If  we  were  in  orbit,  then  let  us  stay  in  orbit. 
Patiently  spinning  cold  lunar  voyagers.  Docile. 
Waiting  for  the  next  cycle  to  be  introduced.  Faith 
in  the  process.  Thy  will  be  done. 

My  foot  eased  off  on  the  gas  pedal. 

The  highway  suddenly  began  dropping  down. 
The  white  fence  was  gone  and  the  valley  floor  of 
Mexico  flattened  out  the  road. 

I  looked  back  at  the  sleeping  passengers.  Parsons 
stirred  and  opened  his  eyes. 

Where  are  we? 

Back  down  on  the  valley  floor.  I  don't  know  yet 
what  planet  or  what  country. 

Oh  there's  a  neon  sign.  We  must  be  in  Mexico. 
It's  in  Spanish. 

A  sign!  The  first  sign.  What  does  it  say? 

Servicio  total. 

Total  service. 

That's  why  we  came  back. 


If,  reader,  I  had  greater 
space  for  writing,  I  now 
would  sing,  in  part,  of  that 
sweet  draught  which  never 
could  have  satiated  me; 


but  inasmuch  as  I  have 
filled  the  leaves  allotted  to 
this  canticle,  the  curb  of 
art  now  lets  me  go  no 
farther. 


From  that  most  holy  water, 
I  returned  made  new — as 
trees  are  brought  to  life 
again  with  their  new  foliage 
— purified,  and  made  fit  for 
mounting  to  the  stars. 

00 


the  receptive  brings  about  sublime  success, 
Furthering  through  the  perseverance  of  a  mare 
If  the  superior  man  undertakes  something  and 

tries  to  lead, 
He  goes  astray; 

But  if  he  follows,  he  finds  guidance. 
It  is  favorable  to  find  friends  in  the 

west  and  south, 
To  forgo  friends  in  the  east  and  north. 
Quiet  perseverance  brings  good  fortune. 

(IChing) 


» 


Ronin  Publishing  Visions 

Books  for  Independent  Minds 


CHAOS  AND  CYBER  CULTURE Leary  CHAOS  19.95 

Cyberpunk  manifesto  on  designing  chaos  and  fashioning  personal  disorders 
POLITICS  OF  ECSTASY Leary  PXTC  14.95  . 

Timothy  Leary  classic  and  influential  psychedelic  writings 
FINDING  A  PATH  WITH  A  HEART Potter  PATH  14.95 

How  to  go  from  burnout  to  bliss,  principles  of  self-leadership 
BRAIN  BOOSTERS Potter/Orfali  BBOOST  14.95 

Improve  mental  performance  w/  pharmaceuticals  &  vitamins,  supplier  list 
LIVING  CHEAPLY  WITH  STYLE Callenbach  LCHEAP9.95 

Smart  ways  to  live  better  and  spend  less 
WAY  OF  THE  RONIN Potter  WAYRON  9.95 

Riding  the  waves  of  change  at  work,  cyberpunk  work 
THE  SCIENTIST Lilly  SCIEN  14.95 

Metaphysical  autobiography  of  amazing  neuronaut 
RITUAL  IN  THE  DARK C.  Wilson  RITUAL  12.95 

Murky  world  of  borderline  existence  between  dreams  and  reality 
SEX  DIARY  OF  A  METAPHYSICIAN C.  Wilson  SEXD  12.95 

Another  tale  of  Gerard  Sorme  and  his  sexual  adventures 
RIGHT  WHERE  YOU  ARE  SITTING  NOW R.  Wilson  RSIT  9.95 

Further  tales  of  the  Illuminati 
ILLUMINATI  PAPERS R.  Wilson  ILLUM  9.95 

Is  all  of  history  a  vast  conspiracy  or  just  a  cosmic  joke? 
WANDERINGS  OF  A  SPIRITUALIST Doyle  WANDER  14.95 

Exploration  of  psychic  phenomena  and  Spiritualism  by  Sherlock  Holms  creator 
HAIGHT  ASHBURY  FLASHBACKS Gaskin  HAFLASH  9.95 

Amazing  dope  tales  of  the  Sixties 

(If  ordering  by  phone  use  book  code  in  CAPITAL  LETTERS  just  to  the  left  of  price) 

Books  prices:  SUBTOTAL    $ 

Money  order  discount  10%  (USA  only)   

CA  customers  add  sales  tax  8.25%    


BASIC  SHIPPING:  (All  orders)  $3.00 

PLUS  SHIPPING:  USA+$l/bk,  Canada+$3/bk,  Europe+$7ftk,  Pacific+$10/bk   

Books  +  Tax  +  Basic  +  Shipping:  TOTAL   $ 

Checks  payable  to  Ronin  Books-By-Phone  (For  10%  Off  Books  Use  Money  Order—  USA  only) 

MC  _   Visa  _     Exp  date  _  _  -  _  _  card  #: (sign) 

Name 

Address City State ZIP 

PRICE  &  AVAILABILITY  SUBJECT  TO  CHANGE  WITHOUT  NOTICE. 

■®*  Call  us  anytime  for  our  FREE  catalog 
©  Orders  (800)  858-2665  •  Info  (510)  548-2124  •  Fax  (510)  548-7326 
£d  Ronin  Books-By-Phone  •  Box  522  Berkeley  CA  94701 

Stores  &  Distributors  —  Call  for  Wholesale  info  and  catalog 


"I)R,  LEARy  iS  A  HERO  OF  AmERJCAn  COnSCIOVSnESS.    HE  BEGAn  AS  A 
SOPHistlCAfED  ACADEffllCIAn,  HE  EnCOVnfERfD  DISCOVERJES  in  HIS  FIELD 
WHiCH  COnFOVnDED  Him  AnD  ..♦  HE  PVRSVED  HiS  SfVDiES  *..  BEYOnD  fHE 


m 


usS 


*aj? 


.1 


BOUnDARJES  OF  PVBLiC  KnOWLEDGt. 

^  /fs^   '  ^/¥-ALLEn  GinSBER-G  -^*11 

pjiGH   PR|ESt  CHROniCLES   16   PSYCHEDELIC  fRIPS  fAKEn   in  fHE  DAYS   BEFORE    LSD   ^"j 
WAS   ITTADE   iLLEGAL.      fHE  fRJP  GViDES   OR.  "HIGH   PRIESfS"   inCLVDE   ^LDOVS    JJUXLEY, 
QORPOn    TJJASSOn,    \JjiLLiAm    $.     BURROUGHS,     QODSDOG,     ^LLEn    QinSBERp,     RAm 
J}ASS,    RALPH    IflEfZriEPv    \JJILLY   (A    TVnKJE   FRpm    HEW   YORK.  CifY),    |^VSfOn    S^ifH, 

pRAnKBARRPn  AnD  of  hers.    -pHE  sceiie  was  [fliLLBROOK*  a  mAnsion  in  vpsfAf^o 

fJEW  YORK-tHAt  WAS  tHE  MIECCA  OF  PSYCHEDELiA  DVRJnG  fHE  1960S,  AnD  OF  f  HE  %i 
IHAnY  LVfflinARlES  OF  tHE  PERIOD  WHO  MADE  A  PiLGRJJIlAGE  THERE  tO  f RIP  WlfH  llj 
LEARY  AnD  HiS  GROVP,  ^HE  LEAGVE  F°R  SpiRJtVAL  DisCOVERy*  EACH  CHAPfERJ 
inCLVDES   An    l-^HinG   READinG,    A   CHROniCLE    OF    WHAf   HAPPEnED   DVRJnG  fHE  fRIP, 


mARpinALiA  of  commEnfs  AnD  oyof  Af  ions,  AnD  iLLvstRAt ions. 

&  FAscinAfinG  winDOw  info  An  era,  fHis  FiRsf  nEw  EDifion  of  HiGH  PRiEsf  in 

OVER.25  YEARS  inCLVDES  A  FOREWORD  BY  f^LLET)  (~jinSBERG,  A  HEW  infRODUCfion  BY 
'fiHIOfHY  LEARY  ABOVf  fHE  infERGEnERAfionAL  COVnfERCVLfVRE,  AnD  nEW 
ILLUSf RAf ions  BY  J=[OWARD  f={ALLis* 

-fimofHY  LEARy'  tHE  visionARY  j=[ARyARP  psYCHOLOGisf  who  becaihe  A  GU 

OF  fHE  60'S  COWJf ERCVLfURE,  HAS  REEIHERGED  AS  An  ICOn  OF  fHE  nEW  EDGE  CYBERPVm 

nD  ADD  SPiRJI 
— TJ/ILLIAJIl  s-  BVR^OVGHS 

«f  HE  COVnfERCVLfVRE  SHAITTAn  OF  fHE  HiPPiE  GEnERAtion," 
\$&^  -n^WSV/EEK 


U^ 


e  visionARy  of  The  pof  Enf  iAL  of  The  HvraAn  rail 


M 


HiGH  PRIESf 


ISBN 


$19,95    iSBriO-9I4I7I-80-I 

Rpnin  PvBLisHinG,  Inc. 

Box  1035,  Berkeley,  CA  94701 


fZ, 


'f£, 


m 


.-« 


\VV^